


Between Green and Grey

by scarredsodeep



Category: AFI
Genre: Alternate Universe, Businessmen, Corporate Intrigue, Existential Sadness, F/M, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-01
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 112,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3096509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jade is a top executive in the marketing firm he built from the ground up. He's forty-two and miserable. He hates his wife, he hates his son, and his life is an embittered numbness--at least until aspiring young intern Adam Carson turns his world upside down... Originally published in 10/2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adam

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. This is a fic that pushes my comfort zones—moral concerns, a middle-aged Jade, longer chapters, and, lo and behold, Hunter as a _romantic player_. If you like it half as much as I do, you’re in for a treat… So sit back, relax, and let me know what you think.

I spend the afternoon filling the apartment with candles, trimming the stems of roses I can’t afford, and checking on the zucchini eggplant casserole I have in the oven. Tonight has to go perfectly, because I got the job. The job I’ve always wanted, the job I’ve worked so hard to get—Hunter is going to be furious. He may even kill me.

Of course, he’ll try to be supportive, but I know it’s going to tear him up inside. I’ve never met anyone who hates big business more. The machine, corporate brainwashing, the cult of consumerism, commercial poisoning—all phrases I’ve heard him use. In college, he was one of those kids with a protest sign, usually at the front of the picket line. He would have loved the sixties.

Anyway, Hunt has a hard enough time with me as a sales supervisor at Best Buy. I don’t think there’s any job I could have that he’d be happy with—I could work for Greenpeace, I guess, or a family-owned organic grocery, which is what he does. But I’m going to be twenty-five in less than a year, and the portfolio I made in college and my summer internship at JP Morgan get less impressive every year; if I don’t start a career soon, it will never happen.

Hunter understands that. He was less understanding this morning, when I told him I had an interview today at Mercer Pacific. It’s the biggest advertising firm on the West coast—damn near the biggest in the country—and I will never get an opportunity like this again, but it’s hard to be happy about an internship that pays more than your full-time job with one of the head executives in the company when Hunter is what God has given you to celebrate with.

He’d probably take it better if I cheated on him. Not that that’s a theory I’m ever interested in testing.

Which is the other problem. I love marketing. I’m good at it, even if Hunt thinks that makes me a corporate vampire. But I also love Hunter. I love him enough that if he forbids me to accept the internship, the offer of a lifetime for someone who’s done squat with the degree he’s still paying for, I’ll do it. I’ll walk away. I’ll keep a job that makes me miserable if it means keeping Hunter, even if a little part of me that’s devoted to hard work and excellence, the half-crazed part that needs to be challenged and is rotting at Best Buy, has to die.

All this is the long version of why tonight has to be perfect. If I am just so sweet and cute and amazing, I know his light blue eyes will sparkle, and he’ll laugh, and he won’t be able to say no. I don’t need him to be 100% comfortable with the job. I just need him to say I can do it.

My heart is in my throat when Hunt’s key turns in the lock. I start to ask how his day went, but he bursts in panicking. “Oh my god, is something burning?” are the first startled words out of his sweet mouth.

A smile twists my lips as I cross the room to take his coat. “I lit candles, babe,” I explain gently.

“And they’re at least six inches away from any books or curtains or flammable materials?”

I silence him with a kiss, putting my hands on his tanned forearms. He’s wearing a black t-shirt (just tight enough to show off his stockroom-buff biceps) and jeans, his usual Fresh Mart get-up. He has a green apron, too, but when I started wearing it to cook he started leaving it at work. I guess he thought I was teasing him. I kind of was. I still have my suit on from the interview, although I’ve loosened the tie and undone the first two buttons. Next to him I’m underdressed. His eyes are full of their usual warmth, a smile ready just behind his lips, and his bleached-blond hair spikes out like a crown on his head. Just looking at him feels like home. I let out a contented sigh and almost, almost, forget about all the rest.

“I just get so worried about open flame,” he laughs, looking a little dazzled by the kiss. “Now what’s all this?” He takes in the candles, the roses, the elaborate place settings. His face falls a little bit.

“I have news,” I say carefully. What I don’t say is that it’s up to him whether the news is good or bad.

Just then, the oven timer goes off. I almost say, “Saved by the bell”, but I think that using horrible clichés will not bode well for my potential advertising career. Just thinking it makes my heart quiver with giddy excitement.

I say with my eyes, “Oh please, please let me have this.”

Out loud I say, “Why don’t you pour yourself a glass of wine and have a seat.”

The basket of bread is already on the table. So is the butter. I thought about making vegetables for a side dish, maybe French green beans with a little garlic, lots of butter, but the main course is vegetables. The only appropriate side dish would be meatballs, and we don’t take home the questionable meat from Fresh Mart (for obvious reasons), just the vegetables. My solution is a plate of good cheese, with the mold spots cut out, to go with the bread. For a romantic meal, I’ll admit it’s a little feeble. But because Fresh Mart is a cause Hunter believes in, he’s willing to ignore his environmental biology degree and get paid next to nothing. I’m not blaming him. It’s only that we don’t have very much money, and he’d get paid more at a Starbucks, but try suggesting that to Hunter. You’d lose a limb, and that’s if he takes it well.

He always tells me that human dignity and ideal, a sense of natural mortality, are worth more than money ever will be. And I respect that—it just makes things like paying rent and eating difficult sometimes. Pretty words and beautiful sentiment might buy you a lot of things, but room and board just isn’t one of them.

I set the steaming casserole on the table. It smells delicious, if I do say so myself. I wasn’t much of a cook before Hunter started bringing home bruised and unloved produce from work. Sometimes I feel like we’re running a shelter for battered vegetables, and saying so always makes him laugh. But now I’m practically a cooking wizard. Like I said, I need to be stimulated. I strive for excellence. Cooking was a good opportunity to challenge myself when the mindlessness of a pointless job started to turn me to mush. Besides, me cooking cheap and nutritious meals saves money. A _lot_ of money. Hunter doesn’t know how badly we need to save that money—to Hunt, it’s just numbers. He can’t think about bills and taxes without getting all riled up. As long as it keeps him from storming the capital, I’m happy to manage our finances. It gives me something to do. It’ll be more manageable, though, now that I have this job. I mean, _if_ I have this job.

“Looks delicious, Addy,” Hunter says adoringly, pouring us both some cheap wine. I’d have splurged for the occasion, but with all the candles and roses and real butter, I just ran out of disposable income. Hunt doesn’t know shit about wine, though. He’ll like it.

“Cooking just isn’t the same without your apron,” I tease, and Hunter scowls.

“I’d like to raise a toast to my boyfriend, the jackass,” Hunter announces to our imaginary dinner guests. We laugh and sip our drinks.

Dinner goes well. The food is as good as cooked zucchini really can be. When we’re stuffed, I shoo him out of the kitchen. I take off the suit jacket, roll up my sleeves, and rinse our dishes. I’ll wash them properly when Hunter goes to bed—for now, I leave them to soak in some soapy water and stick the leftovers in the fridge.

Hunter is sitting on the couch, arms around his knees. It’s his thinking pose, which means he’s probably guessed what my news is.

“Either Best Buy has promoted you,” Hunter ventured, saying the name like a curse, “and give you a fabulous raise, or your interview went better than I’d hoped.”  
I wince a little at his comment, but let it go. At least he’s honest. Besides, he doesn’t have to like it, I remind myself. Only I do.

“They offered me a position,” I tell him tentatively. When he doesn’t spontaneously combust, I go on, “I have the opportunity to intern under their senior marketing executive. He’s the head of the San Francisco branch, and a partner in the firm. This is huge, Hunter. I have shit for a résumé—it’s unbelievable that they’d offer me something like this.”

Hunt is pouting a little bit, I don’t think on purpose. I can see how supportive he’s willing himself to be. “Does that mean I don’t have to believe it?”

I laugh softly. For once, he’s not trying to be funny. “If the internship goes well, they will offer me a position. This could be it, Hunt.”

I am careful not to mention that I’ll be making significantly more money, or that I could get junior exec in brand development if the internship goes well. It’d be a hell of a way to start my career. And, even if I don’t get that position, there are others. Even being someone’s assistant would be an amazingly lucky break into the advertising world—after two and a half years at Best Buy, I’d jump up and down with joy if Mercer Pacific hired me as a janitor.

I don’t say any of this.

I take Hunter’s hands in my own. “I’ll only do this if you tell me it’s okay,” I tell him. He reluctantly meets my eyes.

Hunter gnaws on his lower lip, looking at me through his eyelashes. Finally he sighs. “Okay, all right, fine,” he says grudgingly. “I don’t like it, but I know how important it is to you.”

“Thank you!” I almost shriek, throwing my arms around his neck and knocking him over with the sheer force of my hug. “Oh, thank you! I swear you won’t regret this!”

Hunter hugs me back, laughing while I bounce us up and down like a kid at Christmas. “Oh, I already regret it, but I just can’t say no to you. Why couldn’t your passion be for training seeing-eye dogs, or basket weaving or something? I mean, even hunting. I wish you were just crazy into big game hunting. That would be better than this.”

He isn’t happy, I know. But it’s okay. He doesn’t have to be. It won’t be so terrible. I won’t be corrupted, and I won’t be dancing naked before a corporate sacrifice covered in the blood of consumers any time soon. I know it. When I don’t turn into a monster at the next full moon, I know he’ll feel better.

“You’ll see,” I whisper into his hair, rubbing his back in slow circles. Hunt clings tightly, like he doesn’t believe it. I know because we both feel it: he’s afraid to let go.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	2. Adam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, chapter two. This story is a little more involved than the usual, so I'm not sure how crazy you're going to be about it on a slash website... it's about the characters as people, not just as players in a cosmically construed romance who are helpless but to fall in love. Which is new, I know.

Emmanuel scowls at me, digging his heels into my dashboard. I grit my teeth and turn my focus to the road. We’re not supposed to react to it when he acts out—Marissa tells me this over and over. I disagree, though; especially when he’s getting mud and skateboard dust all over my BMW. He’s trying to piss me off and goddamnit, it’s working. He at least ought to know that all his hard work is paying off.

Except sometimes I think it just comes naturally to him. That my own offspring was truly sent from hell to ruin my life.

Stranger things have happened.

I glance over at the sullen fifteen-year-old. He’s slumped in the passenger seat, no seatbelt, black hoodie hiding his skinny white limbs and sloppy brown curls. His grey eyes, the only thing he got from his beautiful mother, are fixed straight ahead. I want to ask what the hell he has to be so angry about. He’s just a kid. His life is simply not that hard.

Instead of screaming, or shaking him, I keep my voice extremely level and cool. I use the same part of my brain for this impossible task that allows me to deal calmly with miscreant employees, or cancelled major contracts, or when the company loses millions of dollars to fussy clients and human error. Human error is the most frustrating thing in the world to me, but I would rather be dealing with any one of those things than my son right now. Hell, I’d rather be getting a _vasectomy_ than dealing with my son, but I’m fifteen years too late on that idea. So I tap into the dead, corporate part of me, and it allows me to use a normal tone with him. I sound disappointed and little reproachful, serious and businesslike, but not angry; cold, but not affected. It is not what Marissa wants but I am doing the fucking best I can.

“Feet on the floor, Em,” I say tersely, not even pushing the seatbelt issue.

Like the little hoodlum he is, Emmanuel ignores me, crossing his arms across this chest.

I do what I have to. I pull over. Emmanuel finally looks at me. “What the hell, Dad?” he whines.

“I am not tolerating this kind of behavior,” I tell him, still using the calm part of my brain. It seems like more and more, this numb center in me is spreading. I know that real emotion is useful for something, but I just can’t remember what. “I am your father and you’ll do what I tell you. Put your feet on the floor or I’m turning the hell around and you and I can have a nice little talk when we get home. If you want me to take you to Scott’s and continue treating you like a contributing member of this family, you will think about what I’ve said.”

Emmanuel gives me the kind of look designed to make your blood run cold. Luckily, mine already does, so I’m immune.

“Jesus Christ, Dad,” Emmanuel mutters, slamming his feet onto the floor like a petulant child. “Chill out.”

I let that one go, too. I try very hard to cut him some slack and be reasonable. It’s very likely that being a privileged teen from a good neighborhood with no responsibilities whatsoever is more difficult that you would think. I wouldn’t know, since I came from less than nothing and have spent most of my life working hard enough to turn my son into this kind of arrogant monster. I won’t say I did it for him, of course, because that’s not true. He just happened to benefit from my diligence and success. I do things for myself, and no one else.

I don’t mean little things. Of course I’ll drive him to his friend’s house when our driver takes a day off, or buy him a new Nintendo, or leave money on the counter for him from time to time. But I didn’t buy my house or make my money for anyone but me. For the first time the name Puget means something, and I did it all for me. I am self-motivated, and self-rewarding; a tightly closed circuit of success, failure, punishment and reward. I don’t like relying on people; I have always preferred to be self-sufficient.

But if I’m so independent, so controlled, how did I end up this way? Forty-two years old with a beautiful, hollow wife, a snot-nosed brat I can’t stand, and the kind of emptiness inside me that makes me want to run screaming through the streets until someone finally sees me, until they tell me it’s okay, it’s not too late, I can still be someone else.

These are the happy thoughts that occupy me for the rest of the silent drive. I don’t like Scott Pearson. His father is a beer-drinking, football-watching construction worker. Their neighborhood looks like the one I grew up in. In fact, it’s in the same zip code. Emmanuel has almost endless opportunities, but he continues to choose what I’ve spent my whole life running from. I will never understand the child.

I play the good father. I say nothing. As soon as Emmanuel is clear of the car, I start backing down the drive, faster than is strictly safe. Pearson has a better handshake than I do, and he always offers me a beer, something cheap and yeasty in an aluminum can that my father probably drinks. He is perpetually in the garage, tinkering with the kind of beat-up old car that gives me spasms of BMW guilt.

Today I am quick and escape with only a wave. The BMW is too fast for him, and no wonder. He drives a rusted Punto, after all. He hasn’t got a prayer of catching me.  
Although, truth be told, I’m more worried about catching _him_ —as if the lower tax brackets are some communicable disease. Maybe I should make Em wear a Hazmat suit when he breathes their air.

That’s a joke. I’m joking. Mostly.

I mean to drive home, but instead I find myself weaving through neighborhoods till I find my own street. I drive down it slowly, dread clutching at me like a living thing. My stomach drops when I reach my parents’ house, a two-bedroom hellhole with rotted wood siding and peeling paint. I haven’t set foot inside it for years. My father is wrestling a rusted-out lawnmower through the scrubby half-dead grass of the front yard.

I fix my eyes straight ahead and keep driving. I catch a glimpse of his face and he looks old, tired, beaten. It’s a familiar look, and a feeling that is there when I get up in the morning, there when I fall asleep at night. I’ve sampled Marissa’s prescriptions, and some of them help, but I can’t bring myself to admit defeat. I can’t remember the last time I visited these people, the ones who gave me life. I don’t think I’ve even spoken to them since Christmas, when they brought over a gift for Emmanuel and we had dinner. It was terrible. I have a hard enough time thinking of things to say to my wife of eighteen years. What do you say to the people you’ve spent your whole life trying not to be?

I overheard my mother, once, talking to my younger brother. She said, “It’s like he’s not even a real person! You’d think I’d remember giving birth to a machine.” I guess that means she has nothing to say to me either, which really cuts back on the uncomfortable phone calls.

When I get home, I can still feel my old neighborhood clinging to my skin like a film. I could shower, wash it off, but that wouldn’t quite shake it. I could walk through my house laying hands on my things, running my fingers down the smooth chrome curves of our state-of-the-art kitchen appliances and the frame of our Warhol, but the help always gives me strange looks when I do that. I can feel it settling like a fog over me, so I head down into the basement. Marissa is on the treadmill in a sports bra and bike shorts, like I figured she’d be. Her abs are flawless, her breasts heavy and bouncing as she runs.

Marissa is still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, even if she doesn’t believe it anymore. She used to be a model, paid simply to be thin and beautiful, and she knew it then. Her pretty lips were always curled into a tiny smile, her long auburn hair sweeping effortlessly down her back. Even her bone structure is flawless, from the collarbones to her proportionate hips. She sways when she walks and it’s still breathtaking. Her only flaw is that there was a complication during the pregnancy, and Emmanuel is the product of a messy C-section. Curved and jagged, the scar is purple, eating across her flat abdomen; I think that one scar stole the joy from Marissa forever, instead of just ending her career.

Marissa gives me a look. I’ve been staring, wrapped up in the effortless rhythm of her long golden legs. “If you keep drooling like that, people are going to start thinking you’re straight,” Marissa says dryly.

We have an arrangement, my wife and I. I provide emotional and financial stability for her, and she provides a brilliant façade for me. I let her sleep with whomever she wants, since I’m not willing to do the job; and she doesn’t tell anyone that I’m not interested in even the most beautiful of women. I’ve never cheated on Marissa, and when she said she wanted children, we had Emmanuel; but the pretense of sex is one we dropped a few years after we got married. I had scruples, then, and didn’t like lying to her. She didn’t like lying to me, either, about all the other men she slept with; and so we came to an agreement that works better for us than lying to each other ever did.

We still share a bed, and Marissa never brings any of her men into my house. That part of the agreement is unspoken. Marissa doesn’t want Emmanuel to know, and I can agree on that; but I don’t want any of them here, in my home. I’m not sure why the thought bothers me so much, but it makes my skin crawl. We don’t want to be screwed-up rich people—we want to be a successful, driven couple, and so we are. It is not an illusion. It just leads to some less-than-factual assumptions.

These days Marissa works at a health club, helping less attractive women lose weight. She’s a decent fitness coach, but the reason they pay her is because she’s beautiful. When Marissa says, “It works for me”, they do it, no matter what it is. We don’t need the money, but she says it’s a great place to meet men. She keeps trying to get me to go in with her. She’s become very bored now that Emmanuel has outgrown acting like a likeable human being, and she’s made up for it by taking an active interest in my nonexistent love life.

Marissa slows the treadmill and gets off, kissing my cheek and reaching for her water bottle. I let out a silent breath. She’s in a good mood. That’s good. Today might go smoothly.

“And how was your day, dear?” she asks, breathing a little hard.

I hand her a towel to dab at the sweat on her face and she smiles beatifically. I do love the woman, sometimes. There are reasons we’re married, and that smile is definitely one of them.

“Oh, it was all right. We did get a new contract, about nine mil, and Sophie’s been interviewing potential interns.”

“We should have her over for dinner again, she’s such a sweet girl,” Marissa says airily. I don’t point out that Sophie is the new HR specialist, not the secretary we had over for dinner three years ago, when Emmanuel was still a reasonable creature who could be exposed to company. “And did you pick Em up from school?”

I give her my best blank look. “What? Jean does that.”

Marissa swats my arm, shaking her head before trotting up the stairs. “Oh, please,” she laughs. “You haven’t forgotten a single thing your whole life. You could probably tell me what birth was like. Speaking of your impeccable memory, you owe me five miles on the treadmill. What’s your excuse this time? I’m not going to let you off the hook this easily. You promised to match me mile for mile when we signed up for the 10k this spring, and we both know you haven’t forgotten.”

Marissa is still smiling when we get upstairs. She pulls a lasagna out of the freezer and preheats the oven. I am impressed she knows how.

“Have you given everyone the night off?” I ask, a little surprised. Jean is our driver and Isabel usually cooks. I don’t know the name of the cleaning people; they’re always here when I’m at work. I wonder if she’s called them off, too.

It’s one of Isabel’s lasagnas that Marissa is thawing. We really couldn’t get by without her. I decide to give her a raise.

Marissa smiles coyly. “Do you know why I gave Jean the night off?”

I sigh and smile at her. Her machinations are endless. My wife is cold as she is beautiful, same as when we met, but ever since we retired our nanny and took Em into our own hands, she’s been filled with this compulsive need for a healthy family unit. It doesn’t compel her to spend any time with him, of course—only to conspire to make me do it for her. I don’t resent her for it, but our lives were simpler when she was less emotional and more practical. There aren’t any good reasons I know for letting Jean have the night off, but my idea of a good reason is so often very different from Marissa’s. I don’t want to upset her, and it’s a very fine line we walk, so I wait for her to tell me why.

“I hoped you and Em could spend some time together,” Marissa tells me. Some of her ruthless side is showing, and it worries me. I’ve been tiptoeing like she’s made of glass. How could I have triggered an ice storm? But the ice begins to show in her lovely grey eyes nonetheless, a promise of her displeasure if I’ve ruined her scheme.

“Issa, don’t,” I interrupt. You can almost hear the wheels turning in her head. I am tired. I do not have it in me to fight with her tonight. Without money or infidelity to fight over, Emmanuel is the main attraction. Marissa saying his name makes me almost as uncomfortable as him being in the room.

“Just answer me, Jade,” Marissa says, her tone a warning. “How was the drive? Did you two talk?”

I slump into one of the high-legged chairs at our kitchen counter. Italian leather, handmade. Marissa insisted. I drop my forehead into my hand and try to massage the headache away.

“He’s a little bastard, Iss. He rubbed mud all over the Z8, and I know it was deliberate,” I complain. I am leading a horse to water, I know it. If only I’d lie, I could avoid the fight she’s brewing. But if I tell her a tale of sugar and sunshine, and all the Valium I buy her makes her believe it, she’ll pull this shit more often. I can hear it now— _oh, Jade, I gave everyone the weekend off so you and Em can go camping_ , and _why don’t you boys go play catch in the yard?_ and _Do you think Em’s too old to join Boy Scouts?_.

“Yes, and I know how much that car must mean to you, but this is your _son_. Did you yell at him again?” my lovely wife is asking.

I look up at her. Her hands are on her slim hips. She is dangerously close to being furious, and the part of me that’s still capable responds. My own temper stirs under my skin, just when I thought there was nothing living left.

“Yes, Marissa, I _did_ ,” I throw at her, words hot with the most emotion I’ve known all day, maybe all week. I’m not just angry with her for getting angry. I’m angry that she thinks my involvement in his life will fix Emmanuel. I’m angry that she thinks he’s broken. I’m angry that she’s broken him. I’m angry that she forces me into efforts at domesticity she’d never attempt and I’ve never wanted. I’m angry that she wanted a baby and hated him as soon as he was born, as soon as the scar he left ruined her. And I’m angry that Emmanuel treats us like inferiors, that he thinks it’s excusable to disrespect me and everything about the life I’ve made for him, and my distant, meddling wife doesn’t believe in discipline.

I’m angry that I’m forty-two years old and miserable. I’m angry that the man I was twenty years ago, the one brimming with love and life and motivation, is dead. I’m angry that there’s no part of him left inside me.

I am angry, and I keep talking. “The fact is, he’s an insolent little monster and if you won’t discipline him, I will. He’s an adolescent and he needs structure to his life. You fired Genny, and now it’s our job to be his parents, and one of us has got to do it.”

Marissa hits me with such a glare I swear the house shakes. “He’s _afraid_ of you, Jade!” she bursts, exasperated. “I don’t know when you turned into the fucking Gestapo, but you _scare_ him. You’re his father! He just wants you to love him!”

Having children was easier when we still had Genny, our nanny. I never had to see him then, and neither did Marissa. Now all of a sudden he hits puberty and we’re supposed to be a close-knit family unit? We’re strangers. It’s like trying to fit broken glass back into a window pane. Not only is it an impossible puzzle, it’s a bloody one. You can’t reconcile strangers with a few car rides and a lasagna, especially not if they’re unwilling ones. I don’t have the time to really get to know him, to build a friendship and earn his trust and wait for him to forgive me for ignoring him for years. In fact, I don’t _want_ to.

Maybe I should start traveling more often. I’m sure I could fit it into my work.

“Emmanuel doesn’t give a _shit_ about me,” I announce boldly. My wife’s face is turning white, she’s clenching her jaw so hard. I feel like telling her her Botox is showing. “He’d be a hell of a lot happier if you and I both just left him the fuck alone.”

One of the best things about Marissa is that she doesn’t yell. She hisses. Right now, she’s hissing like a fucking cockroach.

“How hard is it to love someone? All I’m asking is that you _try_! _Try_ loving your son. Maybe you’ve never had to try to do anything before, Jade, maybe it’s all just come naturally until now, but this is something I’m asking you to do. Is it too much? Is it too much to ask that you love your own son?”

I want to laugh, but I haven’t done that in years. Cobwebs would come out instead of laughter. Marissa must see it in my eyes, though, because she throws up her hands. “I give up, Jade! You’re absolutely fucking heartless!” she cries, whirling around and slamming the lasagna into the oven. She runs out of the room, so I set the oven timer and get out plates. I doubt she’d be eating with me even if lasagna wasn’t ‘unjustifiable carbs’, but I set her place anyway, humming tunelessly while I do it. I pour a glass of brandy for each of us, well-prepared to drink hers too. In fact, I’m counting on it. I settle in at the mahogany dining room table and trace the gilt inlay, waiting for the timer to go off.

Maybe I should be more upset. Maybe I should be a lot of things. But this is what I am, and as far as I’m concerned, this is a pretty damn typical meal for Jade Puget.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	3. Adam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three. Those of you who are reading, thanks so much for doing so! It means a lot to me. I like this chapter; but then again, I like all of them. Tell me what you think!

'First-day jitters' does not begin to describe it. I almost never sleep to begin with, but last night I couldn’t even sit still. I ironed my suit for hours, making every crease crisp and perfect. I was too nervous for breakfast, and my coffee’s made my whole stomach feel like rust.

Standing in front of the San Francisco Mercer Pacific building, my hands shake. I look up at the towering office building, one hand clutching the strap of my messenger bag where it crosses my chest, the other trying its best to spill my coffee.

The commute was just long enough for me to lose my nerve, and a little too short to steel my will. I am a wreck.  
I take a deep breath and step into the lobby. It is marble floors, high vaulted ceilings, contemporary statues that must be fifty feet high, a breathtaking visual assault of post-modern décor. I have been here before, though; it is slightly less daunting this time. My knees are weak as I cross the starry black marble. It takes an eternity to reach the elements and I lean heavily into the button. I manage not to collapse as I wait for an elevator.

Once I’ve gotten in and pressed the smooth square button marked 18, I set to work mounting my courage. You are confident and collected, I tell myself. There is no one better for this job. When that approach fails, I try another. If you don’t act like you know what you’re doing, you are going to get laughed out of this building and spend the rest of your life at Best Buy.

The sad fact is, when it comes to moral strength versus straight-up bullying, I find that the latter works nine times out of ten. The sheer horror of a life at Best Buy rather than self-esteem and pride brings me back to myself. I am myself again, determined to succeed, determined to be excellent. My heart rate slows. By the time I step out of the elevator on the eighteenth floor, I even have a shaky smile plastered across my face.

The eighteenth floor is new to me. It’s spartan, done in sharp corners and blinding whites. I am snow-blind for a moment and the smile falters.

There are several hallways branching off of the atrium I stand in. Glass paneling gives the suggestion of walls between the receptionist’s desk and the hallways.

“Can I help you, sir?” the pretty receptionist asks me. She is stick thin, and her head is a mass of shining brown curls. Instead of bubbly, her voice is clipped and serious. Even her fingernails are reserved, white French tips.

I begin to rethink the smile.

“I’m Adam Carson,” I explain. She blinks at me, nonplussed.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know the name,” she says a little too briskly. I imagine her hand hovering over the security call button. Who is this strange man who has infiltrated the highest levels of her office? Could I be a spy? An assassin? Oh, I’m nothing if not a question mark.

“I’m here for the internship,” I supplement.

Recognition passes over her face, followed by embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I mistook you for a renegade client,” she says, laughing. “We’ll have to get you an ID card. I’m surprised security let you up at all.” I am relieved at the first sign of life she’s shown. I was starting to be convinced of Hunt’s corporate zombie theory.

“I must look better in this suit than I thought,” I joke, grinning. There is this little perfect world in my head where I walk into this office and everyone loves me.

I can tell it’s only my imagination because I am a lot better looking in that world, but it seems to be on its way to becoming possible. The receptionist laughs at my joke, and introduces herself.

“I’m Ellen,” she tells me. “It’s nice to meet you, Adam.”  
Ellen punches a few numbers on her phone. “Davey, there’s a Mr. Carson here for the internship,” she says into her headset. The name ‘Davey’, oddly affectionate in her professional voice, is all that saves Ellen from being a total robot.

Ellen gives me one more smile before getting back to her flurry of phone calls and desk work. “Mr. Puget’s assistant is on his way for you,” she says, voice clipped again.

I rock back on my heels and wait. I wait long enough to wonder just how long the hallways are before a man strides into the lobby with an airlock hiss.

He is slender and pale, black hair cut close to his head and chocolate eyes that would be lovely if they were less cold. He’s wearing an impeccable black suit, clearly expensive, and a deep maroon shirt beneath it. The shirt is button-down and collared, but he wears no tie.

He takes long, confident steps towards me, sticking out his hand and flashing a brilliantly impersonal smile. He probably smiles at his file cabinet the exact same way. His build is petite, and his unlined face looks younger than mine. I hope I’m wrong. If he is talented enough to be invested in the hierarchy of Mercer Pacific before the age of twenty-five, I am going to be a huge disappointment.

I wonder if Best Buy will take me back.

He has a good handshake, forceful and brief. It tells me something about him—he’s efficient, no-nonsense, high energy.

“I’m David Marchand,” he introduces himself briskly, flashing that smile again. It’s so devoid of _anything_ that it makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle. It’s not so much a smile as a showing of teeth. “You must be Adam. We’ve got a lot of paperwork to get through, so let’s get started.”

That is it for my welcome, orientation, and tour. It feels a little like the first day of high school. David turns on heel and aims his purposeful stride back down the hallways. His legs are shorter than mine, but between trying to take in my surroundings and wrestling the messenger bag slapping against my thigh, it’s all I can do to keep up.

We fly through the slate grey hallways, past open-door conference rooms and close-door offices. Some of the doors are marked; others aren’t. The wood is dark and expensive-looking, and instead of overhead lights, cast-iron wall sconces spill pure white light from wide intervals. The offices must have windows, because the hallway has none. It’s cool enough that I’m glad of my suit jacket.

Just as I give up hope of the hallway ever ending, we reach it. There is another glass wall. We go through the door into another reception area. This one is just as Spartan and neat, only made up of greys and deep blues. A sweeping iron vase overflows with white orchids on a sheet of glass cut into a pentagram and balanced on thick black legs. There are a few armchairs gathered around the structure that I assume is meant to be a coffee table. On the other side of the room, a black granite countertop sports a coffee machine and slender mugs with handles too artistic for me to comprehend. In the center of the room, sunk into the deep navy carpet, is another reception desk. A blonde girl with eyes that match the carpet buzzes behind it. The back wall of the room is floor-to-ceiling plate glass. The view sweeps the bay, a postcard-perfect vista of the Golden Gate Bridge and the cliffs behind it.

My breath catches automatically. It’s gorgeous, especially on a clear day like this. I’m about to say so when David asks briskly, “Are you coming?”

He leads me down a little hallway. This one only has three doors. He points at each of them in turn, saying, “Mr. Puget’s office. My office. Your office.” He swivels and points back the way we came, just past the coffee bar. I was wrong; _this_ must be my tour. “Rest rooms. Creative space. Meeting rooms.”

“I’m sorry, whose office did you say that one was again?” I ask, pointing at the only unmarked door.

David looks at me like I might be retarded. “Yours,” he enunciates very clearly.

“I—I can’t believe I have an office,” I say, mostly to myself.

David actually rolls his eyes. “Why don’t I let you get settled in. I’m going out on the balcony for a cigarette; let’s say my office, in about ten minutes.”

“Balcony?” I parrot dumbly, making a better impression with each passing moment. David doesn’t even grace that intelligent remark with a response.

I don’t blame him.

Since I’m alone in the hallway, I go ahead and knock on the unmarked door David claims is my office. He’s too serious for hazing—probably—but I’m wary. When there’s no answer, I crack open the door. It’s pristine, walls painted in that rich brown usually named after coffee. I decide to call it ‘espresso’. The carpet is even darker blue, almost black, and the wide executive desk is the same deep brown as the walls. There’s a leather swivel chair behind it, and a shining new laptop sits on it beside a four-line phone and a glowing desk lamp. There’s a lateral file cabinet against the wall with a printer and a small potted African violet, which surprises me. It doesn’t seem like the kind of building you’d find plants in, but between the rich colors, the golden glow of the lamp, and the violet, it gives the office a great deal of warmth. It’s simple, but it’s lovely. A coat rack stands silent behind the door. In the corner, there’s a bookcase and a more comfortable looking armchair. Tentatively, I lay my bag upon the desk and I sit. One entire wall, and half of another, are made up of floor-to-ceiling windows, and it’s stunning. It’s a different vantage than the one from the lobby, but it’s no less breathtaking. Thick curtains hang, tucked behind the armchair, ready to be pulled across and destroy the view.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Gods be good, this place is beautiful.

I sink into the chair, trying to believe it. Inside my desk drawers I find all the essentials—file folders, legal pads, envelopes, stamps, stapler, paperclips, unopened packages of pens in every color, highlighters, White-Out—you name it, it’s like a miniature OfficeMax in my desk drawers.

I laugh out loud. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. I can’t believe it’s real. It’s mine.

Can any one person really be this lucky?

I walk over to the bookcase. It’s stuffed with hardcovers. I run my fingers along their spines. Some are stuffy books on the principles of marketing and design, but here and there a good book has made it in. I find John Berryman, John Steinbeck, Truman Capote, J.D. Salinger. I even dig up the first Harry Potter book. When I find a buried Vonnegut, I almost cry out in joy.

“That’s one of my favorites as well,” a low voice comes from behind me. Startled, I leap back from the bookcase and turn. There’s a middle-aged man leaning in the doorway. His shoulders are narrow and he’s shed his suit jacket, first few buttons of his royal blue dress shirt undone. The smoothness of his chest peaks out. The sleeves are pushed up past his elbow, revealing lightly tanned arms and highlighting what are most likely golf or tennis muscles. His hair has overgrown his executive haircut, and the longer pieces have a slight curl. His full lips are curved in half a smile, but his amber eyes are as expressionless as David’s had been.

“Did you find _The Once and Future King_? I hid it between volumes of the Britannica,” he confides, almost playfully. I amuse him, I can tell, but I’m okay with that. When I lunge back to the bookcase to find it and turn back triumphant, my antics have had an effect. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his light eyes, and the whole face looks younger.

“It’s like treasure hunting,” I announce, pleased. Maybe the dream world didn’t go down the drain with David—if I win this guy over, I have a chance.

“You’re the first person to have this office who enjoys reading. No one else has ever found them,” he tells me, serious again as he pushes himself off the doorframe and shakes my hand. His is big, long-fingered and warm. It’s a good firm handshake, and afterward he places his other hand on top of mine.

“Welcome to Mercer Pacific,” he says before releasing my hand. I’m beaming, and he’s about to introduce himself when David’s voice flows into the room.

“Do you own a watch, Mr. Carson? Because it’s been twelve min—” David stops in the doorframe and blanches at the sight of his kinder colleague. “Mr. Puget, I didn’t realize—”

My heart stops as _Mr. Puget_ cuts off David’s schmoozing. “Forgive me for detaining your intern with my silly pleasantries. I wouldn’t want to impose.” Mr. Puget’s face is impassive again. It is hard to imagine he’s ever had a thought that wasn’t serious.

David, too, has gone milk white. “No, I was the one imposing. He’s _your_ intern, not mine,” David says weakly, head bowed like a dog expecting to be kicked.

“And what are you?” Mr. Puget asks. Alaska is warmer than his voice. The Titanic sunk in water warmer than his voice. Me, I still can’t believe I’m in the same room as Jade Puget, national partner of Mercer Pacific. What do I care if he’s being scary? The man could be Hitler and I’d still be delighted he’s my new boss.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration that’s much too close to Hunter’s version of the truth. But you get the idea.

“Your assistant,” David says, voice dropping even lower.

Mr. Puget nods his head curtly. “I’m glad we got that straightened out. I know you two have a lot of paperwork to get done; I’ll stop interfering.”

David hurries to kiss up to Mr. Puget. “You’re not interfering at all,” he oozes, trying to redeem himself. Puget silences him with a look and leave the office. _My_ office.

David’s fierce scowl knocks the grin off my face. He’s too professional to say something nasty, but his face says it for him. Everyone at Best Buy liked me. Customers adored me. But David never gave me a chance.

I follow him across the hall into his office in silence. When I see the view, I begin to understand why he hates me. His office is done in contemporary black and white. You could play human chess on the floor, and his glass-topped desk could pass as an interesting sculpture. As it is, I think it may have escaped from the Museum of Contemporary Art. If you’re into the décor, his office is even nicer than mine; it’s obviously the work of someone with a good artistic eye and a masterful grasp of composition. But the view is a tragedy. His windows are done in large four-by-four squares, the wall in-between painted black so the whole thing is a continuation of the checkerboard flooring. The other walls are alternately flat black and flat white. What shows through the squares of window is a few office buildings, a bank, a hill that I know for a fact is a constant traffic jam and, just on the fringe of your vision, one of the wharves spotted with fish heads and vibrant splashes of guts. Gull crap covers the planks and a few of the raucous birds play tug-of-war over a bit of entrails. One of the office buildings is close enough he could play catch with the receptionist.

Feat of modern architecture and style as it may be, David’s view is utter crap.

“Oh, wow, sorry about the view,” I say without thinking. David flashes a thin line of teeth and I realize too late he thinks I’m bragging. “Yours is much bigger, though,” I add hurriedly, trying to salvage the comment. David shoves a sheaf of papers across his desk.

“Read and sign,” he says flatly.

The hand cramp sets in about halfway through the stack, which probably dwarfs even the tower of freaking Babel. I start experimenting with my signature. I add flourishes, I add stars. I am A. Carson, I am A.M. Carson, I am A.C. That loses is fun quickly enough. I even sign Irving Washington once or twice, but that’s even longer to write. Only seconds before my brain liquefies and pours out my ears, David’s phone starts speaking. It has the voice of Ellen, and I realize belatedly that it’s an intercom.

“Davey, your eleven o’clock is here,” Ellen chirps.  
David, who still hasn’t asked me to call him Davey, even after almost three hours of relative silence, holds down a red button and says, “Please escort him to the green room. We’ll be along shortly.”

Does that mean I’m coming too? Releasing the intercom button, David looks up at me. “It is best if you don’t speak during my presentation,” he tells me. I nod. The last few hours have been a crash course in radio silence for me. I think I can handle it. “Interns are encouraged to take notes, and refresh the client’s coffee. If you have any questions, ask me afterwards. We’re meeting with Steven Wright today and pitching the new look of Alberta Airlines.”

I want to ask about Alberta Airlines. Does it already have a brand identity, or did Davey start from scratch? Where do the commercials air? Is it only in Canada? When can I see them? But instead I just nod again. Satisfied, David leads me out into the hallways and towards a conference room, which I guess is very green inside. Before I step in, though, a hand closes around my forearm. I look at the body attached.

“Mr. Puget!” I say, a little flustered. It was easier to talk to him when I didn’t know he was worth forty million dollars. Go figure.

“Don’t waste your time on this crap,” he says conspiratorially, giving my arm a tug. “Come with me.”

I open my mouth to protest before I remember who’s tugging my arm. I swallow my tongue and slip after him down the hallway. I fix my eyes on Puget’s back. His dress pants are cut flawlessly, clearly expensive. I can’t help but notice his ass. For a guy his age, he is in _great_ shape. My ass doesn’t look half as good, and he’s almost twice my age.

Mr. Puget stops just outside an unmarked doorway. “This is our creative space,” he says, and lets the door swing open. The room is stuffed with comfortable couches and chairs. A home theater sized television takes up one wall, surrounded by DVDs and gaming consoles. The far wall is all windows. Opposite the TV is an island counter with high stools. The carpet gives way to tile and there’s a kitchenette, complete with espresso machine and basket of shining apples.

Mr. Puget knocks on a wall. “Soundproof.” He hits a button on the stereo and music fills the room from invisible speakers. “This is where you can come to think, or to unwind and wait for an idea to hit you.” Next to the sleek metal fridge, a glass door leads out to the balcony. He ushers me out.

The cool air hits my face, and I breathe deeply. This high up, you can’t taste the exhaust. Planters stuffed with flowers line up along the railing. Next to the ashtray, there’s a potted strawberry plant. Mr. Puget places his hands on the railing and smiles at the horizon.  
It’s a wonderful smile. His face is serene, and I can tell the smile is real. Breathing the living air buffeted up to the edge is happiness for him.

When he turns back to me, his eyes are bright. “I have a meeting with a prospective client in a few minutes. I had to come get some air first. Would you like to join me?”  
My heart soars at the thought. Jade Puget, the man who worked side-by-side with Isaac Mercer himself to build this company from the ground, is inviting me to sit in on one of his meetings? Surely I’ve died and gone to heaven

“I’d be honored, Mr. Puget,” I babble. “This is the kind of thing I’ve only dreamed of.”

Mr. Puget stops just in front of the door, hand resting on the white iron bar. The serenity is still there, but it’s concentrated now, hard and cold and to be reckoned with. The smile is totally erased. He puts up a hand, his wedding band catching the sunlight. “I have Davey to kiss my ass and pander to me, and more interns than I can count. If you want to last a week here, be honest with me. Say the things no one else will, or what do I need you for?”

I am only shaken for a moment. This is what I do best: stepping up. Rising to the challenge. Excelling. Because of this, I know exactly what to say. It’s the first time today that’s happened. It’s a risk, but I think it’s the kind Mr. Puget wants me to take.

“Can I call you Jade?”

The smile is back, hovering at the corner of his lips. “Now there’s a start,” he says.

A small part of me drowns in self-gratification and dies.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	4. Emmanuel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, a character I _do_ own!

I hate him. I hate her, too, but he’s worse. He’s the worst there’s ever been.

I don’t know why they ever had me. She won’t talk to me, not that I’d want her to, and Dad’s even worse, because he _does_ talk to me, and I don’t want him to.

I call it yelling, but he’s never raised his voice. He doesn’t need to; he says everything he needs to with his dead eyes.

I’ve never seen a dead guy, but I bet his eyes are just like my dad’s.

Sometimes I wish I’d gotten Dad’s eyes, instead of Mom’s. If I had lifeless alien eyes like him (and his look like the old crappy flat-brown penny that you find in the parking lot but still shines like copper when the sun gets it right), none of the kids at school would be mean to me. They’re assholes, and it’s Dad’s fault. If I could just take the bus like everybody else, they wouldn’t even know how rich my stupid dad is. Mr. Pearson said he’d drive me if I wanted, like he does for Scott, and then maybe they’d leave me alone, but I know if I ask Dad he’ll freak. Maybe he’s actually a spy or something, and Jean’s not just our French chauffeur (I didn’t know how to pronounce that word for like forever, and it sounds so fancy that now I don’t like saying it anyway) but actually a body guard. Maybe my dad’s arch-nemesis is going to kidnap me and lock me in a missile silo in Russia or something, and that’s why I have to go with Jean, so Jean can protect me. But probably not. Probably my dad’s just an asshole who thinks money makes him better than everyone else.

It’s bad enough I have a faggot name and can’t play any sports but tennis. When I was little, Genny (that’s my nanny) asked Mom to sign me up for Little League like I wanted. Genny was cool—she knew probably what the other kids would be like towards me, and thought that if I was like a baseball superstar they’d think being rich was cool. Maybe Genny should have just like suffocated me in my crib or something instead of letting this happen. Because my mom hates me, I got fucking art lessons instead. I can play Tchaikovsky on the piano, but you should see me try to catch a football. According to every jock in gym, it’s fucking hilarious.

I can run, though. Which makes me the ideal prey: I give chase. My mom’s stupid fitness plan made sure of that. I can stretch like a goddamn ballerina, too, and I’m fast, so I joined the track team when I started high school. But the only difference that makes is the guys who play _real_ sports can say “Run, Emmie, run!” when they see me in the hall.

Scott jogs up to my locker. He’s tall like I am, but he’s got broad shoulders and a thick chest. _He’s_ on the freshman football team. Plus all the girls in like the whole grade love him for his messy brown hair and crooked smile. Girls won’t even _talk_ to me. Jess Appleby used to sort of flirt with me in biology, until this stupid guy Tyler started calling me Manny the Man-Lover and asking if our butler helped me jerk off. Jess started laughing at his stupid jokes and holding his hand after Homecoming, and now she calls me Manny the Man-Lover too, which is real fucking original since everyone in the whole damn grade does it already.

Scott flashes the smile his girlfriend Megga swoons over. Probably I won’t ever have to worry about girls swooning over me, especially not hot ones like her. I think Scott needs braces, but what do I know. He slaps me on the back, which is how the football guys say hello. It’s like what they’re really saying is ‘I’m straight’ and they have to hit you really hard so you know they aren’t lying. Genny was a feminist, and she used to talk to me about that kind of stuff. It’s probably her fault I’m so damn polite to everyone all the time. Yeah, I’ll never have a girlfriend.

“Do you wanna come over for dinner?” Scott asks. My dad would flip if he heard the way Scott totally fails to enunciate. “Mom’s making Hamburger Helper.”

I love Mrs. Pearson’s cooking. I mean Isabel’s is good too, but it’s all healthy or fancy or something gross. I eat dinner at Scott’s house almost every night.

“Sure, cool,” is what I say, nodding. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and groan under the weight. I finished my homework in study hall, but I stand out fucking enough. I don’t want to be the only kid in ninth grade with no homework, too. I’m already the only kid who doesn’t have a D in trigonometry, and I’m the only freshman in the class.

My life could not get any worse. When a kid punched me in the nose at the beginning of the year because I was being a faggot or something, Mom tried to sue the school. Dad talked her out of it, but everyone knew. That ruined everything.

“Hey, can we get Jean to drive us?” Scott asks. He says it ‘John’, even though it’s French. I let him. It’s a lot more normal that way. When Mom made me take French lessons, Genny who was an exchange student there a million years ago used to practice with me. She always told me that my accent was better than the real ones, but when we went to France last summer I found out she was exaggerating.

I think about telling Scott Jean _has_ to drive us, in case the evil Russian scientist my dad spies on sends his minions out to get me, but I decide not to be weirder than I can help. I have to decide that a lot, even though I don’t think Scott would mind, since he’s even weirder underneath all the girl-attracting football-playing exterior. Scott loves the stupid Mercedes, because it goes like a million miles an hour and if we put Queen on, Jean always speeds. Scott calls it the ‘Mini-Limo’. It’s got tinted windows and cupholders in the back and everything.

“Can I sleep over at your house this weekend?” Scott asks. We’ve been friends practically forever, but he’s never been to my house. I’m kind of ashamed of it. It’s way too nice to show people, even if we would have a lot of fun, especially with the indoor pool. “My sister’s coming home from college to visit, and I know my mom’s just going to harass me about my grades the whole time.”

“Is your sister still hot?” I ask him while we slide into the backseat. Jean insists on holding the door for us, just in case I don’t feel weird enough. I keep asking Jean to part across the street where no one can see him. Sometimes when he doesn’t want to answer me he pretends not to understand my English, so I ask it in French too, about a thousand times a day, but he never does. Other than that Jean’s pretty cool. He lets us listen to whatever we want, and turns up the volume so loud I’ll be deaf before I get my driver’s license.

Scott just punches my arm, and then covers his head and shrieks, “Don’t sue, don’t sue!”

I kind of smile, because it’s okay when Scott teases me, because we’re like best friends, even if it is still too emotionally traumatic to be funny. Maybe in twenty years when I’ve learned how to be a human being despite the deep psychological scars I will be able to laugh about it, but I don’t think so.

I think about how we’re best friends and how I’m trying not to be a weird person anymore and I say, “Okay, you can spend the night.”

“Really?” Scott asks, and his eyes are so huge you’d think I was showing him a picture of boobs or something. Megga won’t show him hers or something, and I guess they’re some huge mystery to guys who will someday actually get to see them. I usually say no all the time when he asks to sleep over. I keep telling him my dad hates me and won’t let me have anyone over, since like sixth grade, even though my dad wouldn’t notice if I shit in the living room. I nod and Scott’s face breaks into a grin. “That is so awesome! Do I need to like dress up or something so the doorman lets me in?”

I laugh and hit him on the shoulder. “We don’t even _have_ a doorman, asshole!” I insist, and then I lean between the seats to talk to Jean. “Can you take us to this idiot’s house, please?” I ask him. Scott asked one time if I have to say please even though Jean is like my servant and I had to laugh at him. Jean does whatever he damn pleases, from my experience. Like parking right in front of the goddamned school every day. Jean raises his eyebrows, but nods. He even smiles a tiny bit. Jean at least likes me. I can tell because he turns on Queen without me even asking, and turns it up all the way, just like we like it.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	5. Jade

I have never liked the weekend. It used to mean time at home with my family, and that’s why I hated it. Twenty-five years later, nothing has changed but the family. I still would like to avoid them.

The nice thing about making my own office hours is that I can go into work whenever I want. Even if I go in at 3 AM on a Sunday, I’m not the only one there. Mercer Pacific never sleeps; why should I?

It’s Friday night, and I should be on Isaac Mercer’s jet on my way to New York for our monthly conference. Isaac is my oldest friend, and the conferences are half business and half an excuse to see each other. The difference between Isaac and I is that he came from money while I came from nothing, and that he’s very happily married while I’ve got Marissa. His wife Annette is wonderful; I don’t blame him for being besotted with her, even after all these years.

Marissa has a date tonight. That’s normal. She tells Emmanuel she’s going out with the girls, when she tells him anything. The reason _I_ have to be here is that Emmanuel’s having Scott Pearson spend the night. I’m not positive, but I don’t think he’s brought a friend home since he was about eleven. I wouldn’t want to introduce people to me and Marissa either. In fact, I avoid it whenever possible.

The thought that my son might take after me makes me shudder. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Since Marissa can’t bring her date home and Isaac’s jet can bring him to San Francisco as easily as it can bring me to New York, I got babysitting duty. I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do, but I’m assuming it’s somewhere along the lines of staying the hell out of sight.

Just to make sure, though, when Emmanuel gets home from school I take him aside. He fixes me with that loathing look of his, and something compels me to smile back at him. He was easier to talk to when he was five and I had to crouch down to make eye contact.

“So, um, how was school?” I open awkwardly. I am absolutely useless at this stuff. I try to imagine him as a potential client, but I know he’s just my son, and it doesn’t work.

“Fine,” Emmanuel says, enunciating each syllable to make the word as sharp as possible. He hates me. I get it.  
He is not interested in working with me. I can’t believe Marissa thinks the little punk is _scared_ of me. He’s the scary one, not me. Maybe the Botox went a little too deep, and her brain has been compromised.

“So Scott’s spending the night, huh,” I try. Em just blinks at me. It’s official—my son thinks I’m retarded. At the last second I think of a way to salvage our non-conversation. I pull out my wallet and hand him my American Express, my ‘personal use’ card. I don’t have any cash on me, and the limit on this one is probably the lowest. I hope leaving it with him for a few hours won’t mean I have to find out, but if spending a few thousand dollars is what babysitting means to Emmanuel, I guess I can handle it.

“Order some pizza when you guys get hungry. Get a large with green peppers, mushrooms, and olives for me and Isaac. It’s a business meeting, so try to stay out of the way.”

Looking angrier than before, Em grabs the card out of my hand. I’m not sure, but I think he mutters “I hate you” under his breath. I’m not too torn up about it. He’s not my favorite person, either.

“Can I go now?” he half-sulks, half-whines.

“Be my guest,” I say mildly, and watch him fume away. It’s not really my problem, is it? If giving a kid your credit card doesn’t make them love you, nothing will.

 

 

Isaac arrives with the pizza. There’s a private airfield only a few miles from our house, but the traffic so close to San Francisco is wretched. Emmanuel and I reach the door at the same time. He throws me a sullen look as I open it. Scott stands just behind him, his second, peering at the pizza by and Isaac.

“Zac!” I grin, embracing my friend while Em pays for the pizza. Em hands the pizzas to Scott, and Isaac hugs him next.

“How’s my godson holding up?” Isaac asks in that easy way he has with children, ruffling Em’s hair. I’d pull back a stump if I tried that.

“Same as always,” Emmanuel says, smiling at his godfather. “I have an A in World History. I get perfects on all the tests.” It is impossible not to love Isaac, even if I hate him a little bit for getting that scrap of information out of Em. Isaac is the warmest person I’ve ever met. That makes him sometimes impossible to deal with, but usually just extremely lovable. And if _I’m_ saying it about the guy, you know it’s got to be true.

“Did you like your birthday present?” he asks. Zac sent a motocross bike when Em turned fifteen. It came fully assembled in a shipping crate, gleaming red and yellow, flawless and new—every adolescent boy’s dream. Marissa immediately confiscated the keys, which Em explains glumly. I imagined what it would have been like to be him at that moment, trying on empathy. I imagined myself angry and unable to articulate it, sulky because that’s what I was expected to be, frustrated and trapped, undermined and ignored. But then I remembered that when I was his age, a new bike was never something I needed to be upset about. If Marissa wanted him to have a driver’s license first, so be it. I did not intervene.

“I know, your dad told me,” Isaac goes on, rummaging in the pocket of his tight designer blue jeans. “That’s why I brought these,” he goes on, producing a spare set of keys and jingling them.

I haven’t seen my son look so happy since Isaac sent the bike in the first place.

“Can I, Dad?” he asks sincerely, forgetting to be an asshole. His eyes are shining, and Scott is obviously impressed. Take that, Pearson. “I mean, can Scott and I take it out?”

Playing the cool dad, I shrug. “I don’t care what you do,” I tell him.

“And you won’t tell Mom?” Em asks, not sure if he should be thanking me or not.

I shake my head. Tell Marissa? The woman is difficult enough when I _haven’t_ done anything wrong. Sure, she’ll probably find out; but that’s when I’ll blame Isaac.

Emmanuel smiles a real smile. He and Scott leave the pizzas behind as they run for the garage, where the bike is still cozy in its shipping crate. Isaac calls, “Be careful!” and I wish I’d thought to say it.

Sometimes—okay, often—I wish Em was Isaac’s son. Annette is infertile, but doesn’t want to raise a stranger’s child; she wants her own. While that rules out adoption, it makes Emmanuel perfect for them. Marissa and I aren’t strangers, after all. Isaac has known us for years. They’d be better parents than me and Iss have been, and then _I_ could be the godfather who sends expensive gifts and never actually has to deal with the recipient.

I know it’s wrong. But times like this, when Isaac is perfect and I’m a cold rock of a man, when Isaac can make my son smile and talk and I can’t even charge affection on credit, I wish I could send Em away to New York, to live with Isaac and just be _normal_.

Maybe the difference is that Isaac is willing. He _wants_ the affection. Maybe Em can tell that I don’t.

“You have a great kid, Jade,” Isaac tells me as I pick up the pizzas and head for the kitchen.

I frown at him. “I think you’ve confused me with Jade from a parallel universe. You see, _my_ son is a rotten little bastard.”

Isaac looks surprised for a moment. Then he laughs, and takes a piece of pizza. “You know what?” Isaac says in the voice that means I probably don’t want to. I look at him, really look at him. His red hair and red beard are cropped close to his face, and his green eyes glitter with amusement. He rubs at the place on his jawline where sideburn plows into beard and speaks around a mouthful of food, a dirty little habit he pretends not to have around most everyone else. “He reminds me of you.”

I freeze with a slice halfway to my mouth. I lower it cautiously. “Excuse me?” I say, not caring how icy I sound. Isaac is my only friend—he’s used to it. But I can’t comprehend what he’s just said. Like _me_? Seriously, his brain must be trapped in a parallel universe. Em is nothing like me. For one thing, I’ve never been such a pain in the ass.

“When you were younger? You were made of rebellion! Where do you think he learned that scowl? You hated your parents, too—the Jade I remember was a ratty little skateboard punk with an attitude as big as his ego, just like Emmanuel. Don’t you remember what it was like? How insecure and scared you really were under the tough exterior? How you had to hate everyone, or else you started trusting them, and then they’d just let you down? God, if you’ve forgotten, you’ve even more a mess now than you were then.” Isaac breaks the serious moment with a grin. “Besides, he looks just like you, the poor thing.”

I think I would rather kill Isaac in cold blood than listen to him say this. It’d be easier to wrap my pizza-greasy hands around his stubbly neck than believe Emmanuel is anything like me. He is not even a cheap knockoff of me. I was nothing, am nothing, like that.

Isaac seems to know that, though, and he hits me with another brilliant smile. Even his teeth look happy and successful. “But no one wants to hear these things, so why don’t we open a bottle of wine and talk shop?”

I don’t need to be told twice. I have our glasses filled in record time, and mine’s drained before Isaac takes his first sip. He raises one red eyebrow, but doesn’t say a word. Smart man.

“Tell me what’s happening in San Francisco,” he prompts. He doesn’t mean numbers. San Francisco was our first office, and it’s still his favorite; he keeps himself well aware of the financial ins and outs. He speaks to the manager of each branch weekly, but he calls me for different reasons. He likes to talk about work, same as I do; but Isaac asks after Marissa and Emmanuel, too, and is a better listener than most inanimate objects. He will sit rapt for hours, genuinely fascinated with every word out of your mouth. When Isaac asks you how you are, he is not being pleasant. He genuinely wants to hear the answer.

“My assistant still has that stick up his ass,” I sigh, shaking my head at the thought of Davey. He’s neat and efficient with remarkable artistic vision, but has the habit of overdoing everything. Davey could make tying your shoes complicated, and he’s so fucking smarmy I’ve started to wince whenever he speaks. He’s wonderful at his job, and he’s a very attractive man, but I just can’t forgive him for being a prep school asshole. Even if it makes him perfect for me. The universe gives you what you deserve sooner or later.

“Sophie from HR tells me you’ve got a new intern. Is this one going to try and sue us for moral debasement, or is that just the last three?” Isaac is teasing, but only slightly exaggerating.

I smile at that. I don’t have the best track record with interns. The majority of them are gone inside of two weeks—quit before I’ve had the chance to fire them.

“I hope not,” I say quietly. Adam’s different. He may be the first worthwhile intern I’ve ever had. It took him five minutes in his office to get to the bookcase. He thinks the view is beautiful. In the morning he hums to himself. One morning when I came in, Ellen had a song stuck in her head, and he sang it for her. He’s fresh, unspoiled. Instead of getting my coffee and kissing my ass, he meets my eyes and calls me by name. I asked him to be honest and, as far as I can tell, he has been.

Better yet, he’s clever. He has a knack for words, and there’s a visual grace of simplicity and balance, what he calls gestalt, that spans his portfolio. The work that I’ve seen is understated but eye-catching, and he’s absolutely wonderful with people. The last meeting he joined me on, he coaxed the client into his contract. It’s the sincerity in his big blue eyes, the total conviction and the passion in his voice.

Hell, he’s won me over. I’m sold. And if he’s done that, the rest of industry should be easy.

“He’s great,” I tell Isaac, and we’re both surprised I mean it. “I think he’s right for the position. After Leila left, I didn’t think I’d find anyone, but he might be it.”

Isaac looks surprised. I can’t blame him. Between me and Davey, every intern we’ve had ran for the hills. It’s not like me to like anyone—especially some young, naïve idealist with bright eyes and no background in the field.

Isaac never questions a good thing, though. “Then what are you waiting for? Offer him a job!” Isaac urges. Isaac is always ready to expect the best possible outcome. He’s impulsive, an eternal optimist. “I mean, it’s not as if _he’ll_ leave to have a baby, right?”

This is why Leila left us. That, and when she found out she was pregnant, she ended the affair with Davey that I was supposedly oblivious to. He didn’t take it well. When I told her she could start her maternity leave early to get away from him, she told me she wasn’t coming back. Ever.

Now she’s got a bouncing baby girl and works for one of our biggest competitors.

I think about what Isaac’s said. “Shouldn’t we wait? If he thinks we’re too eager, won’t he expect more pay?”

Isaac shrugs. “You’re not dating him, you’re offering a job. If he expects higher pay, give it to him. Give him what Leila used to make. Give him what you make, for all I care. I know you, Jade. You meet someone you like about once every ten thousand years. Get this one on contract before you scare him off.”

I shoot Isaac a look. “That explains why I’ve never much cared for _you_ ,” I say flatly, but he knows I’m teasing. “I was waiting for Adam Carson to come along and fill my quota.”

Isaac looses a full-throated laugh. Even though I know better, even though I’ve seen it with my own eyes, sometimes I think Isaac’s never felt anything but joy.

And really, truly, I couldn’t be less jealous.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	6. Adam

Jade sits me down in his office. The whole room is done in shades of indigo, except for the furniture, which is made of burnished cherry that drinks in the light.

A smile plays about his lips and he slides a card across the desk to me. It’s a black Visa, numbers raised in gold. At first I don’t understand; then I read ‘Adam Carson’ and below it ‘Mercer Pacific’, and then I’m really confused.

“What—?” I start to say, but Jade holds up a hand. “There’s more,” he says, eyes glittering. He almost looks alive as he hands me a keyring. Two Bentley keys hang from it.

“Jade, what is this?” I ask. His name is still strange on my tongue. It’s hard not to add ‘sir’ on the end of each sentence. It’s not the age difference. It’s the air he exudes—success, competence, mastery. I am squalor in a city of ivory, and I keep waiting to be cast out. My own courage at persisting still surprises me. But Jade said he wanted someone who’d be honest, someone different from the rest—and I’ve always been different anyway. I had the feeling I was doing well over the last three weeks. I’m starting to get a handle on things, and Jade seems to value my opinion. He’s even given me my own project. But the credit card and the keys are beyond my realm of comprehension.

So Jade explains.

“Yours,” he says simply, “if you want it. I’m prepared to give you that office to keep. Junior executive in brand development, with a good shot at branch management in your future. A company card, and a pretty slick company car. If you want it.

My heart is staggering across my tongue, which makes it difficult to speak. “I—I mean— _really_?” I spit out. I am reeling. This has got to be an elaborate joke. Things like this just don’t happen.

Jade nods, letting a bit of his smile escape. “It goes against my better judgment, but yes. Mr. Mercer suggested it, and I’m getting worse and worse at ignoring him. We’ve had god knows how many interns in the last eleven months. And you’re the best there’s been. So what Isaac wondered was, why keep looking? And I’ll admit, his logic’s sound. You’re the man for the job, Adam. There’s no point in looking further.”

“I’m still learning,” I blurt, instead of having to deal with all the nice things Jade Puget and, apparently, _Isaac Mercer_ have said about me. “I mean, I’m not even good yet. I haven’t even had my own client yet. Are you sure?”

Jade raises his eyebrows, smile fading. “You don’t have to talk me out of it,” he says mildly. “You can just say no.”

I hesitate. I think of the rusted-out van Hunter drives. A month ago, it was the transmission. Last Tuesday, the fan belt snapped. My cell phone’s been turned off, our fridge it empty, the dishwasher hasn’t working in five months. Our mattress was a hand-me-down (which is just _gross_ ), the kitchen chairs are unmatched and perilously wobbly, you can see Hunt’s socks through his sneakers and even with the pay increase, rent is due and I’m not sure if I can make it. I’ve been hand-washing my one suit in the bathtub to save money at the Laundromat, and it wasn’t until I got the water bill that I realized what a bad idea _that_ was.

I also wonder why anyone sane would say no.

And then I think, _It’s Hunter_. He’s been uneasy ever since I got this internship. I think we’ve both been counting on it ending and Mercer Pacific saying so long. That way things could be normal between us again, or as normal as they ever were. _That’s_ why I, a sane and ambitious man who has no desire to rot living, would say no.

It’s the credit card that really gives me pause. I can think of a thousand things I’d charge on an open credit line. Groceries, toothpaste, the bill from the mechanic, insurance on the van, insurance on our health, new sheets and shoes and clothes for work, real silverware, another bookcase, a kitchen table that doesn’t fold, the water damaged linoleum, the rot in between shower tiles, the rusting drain. It would make life so much easier to pay later, pay a little at a time, and live better now.

Hunter doesn’t believe in credit cards. I’m not actually forbidden to have one, but at the same time I’m definitely not allowed. But God, it would change everything for us.

Change everything. I wince at the thought. Changing everything is not what Hunt wants—it’s not what I want. Just a moment ago, I was pining for the way we were before I ever got this job. I smile a little, remembering when Hunt and I met in college. When he found out what my major was, he all but stopped talking to me. It wasn’t until I kissed him that he relented and decided he could live with my major. From the very beginning, we knew this was a problem. From the very beginning, he knew he wasn’t okay with what I wanted, and I knew it too. Was I wrong to hope he would mellow, change? Was he wrong to hope I’d give up the thing I loved? No one’s wrong, I decide. We’re right, both of us, right for each other. And that is all that matters. We’ll just have to work the rest out.

For example, I could use the card only for emergencies. Nothing in our lives would change over a piece of plastic in my wallet. It’d be like my driver’s license. I’d never even get to use it.

“I’ll have to talk to Hunter first,” I say aloud, almost absent-mindedly, buried in the weight of my churning thoughts. I never intended for anyone here to know I’m gay. It’s not that I’m ashamed—I just don’t want to be treated differently. I guess, in San Francisco, I shouldn’t be worried, but I grew up in Oregon. Things were a little different there.

“Who’s Hunter?” Jade asks, voice guarded for some reason. I wonder if I hurt his feelings. I wonder if he has them.  
My whole face goes up in flames. “Um,” I say gracefully, “would you believe he’s my brother?”

“Not when you’re blushing like that.”

I sigh. I hate saying the words. Even in San Francisco, I hate saying the words. “My boyfriend,” I cave. I cannot believe I’m having this conversation with Jade Puget. I mean, he’s been on the cover of Forbes with Isaac Mercer. If I could pick two hundred things to say to him, none of them would be about my sexuality.

Jade looks surprised. Okay, that’s an understatement. Jade looks like I’ve just told him I fry up Chihuahuas and sell them to tourists down at Fisherman’s Wharf.

I groan quietly, dropping my head onto my arms. They’re folded on his desk.

“No, don’t do that,” Jade finally says, composing himself. His voice is a little tinny with shock. “I’m… just surprised you told me. Thank you for being so honest. Your personal life is really… none of my concern. If you’re hesitant to accept the job, maybe we can discuss salary and benefits further. I have a feeling I can make a more attractive offer than Best Buy.”

Jade’s voice still sounds strange, and it’s the first time he’s rubbed the Best Buy thing in my face. It’s a line I’d expect from David, but not Jade.

“That’s not it,” I say, a little angry. “I just should discuss this with him, that’s all.”

“Why are you with someone who wouldn’t want you to seize this kind of opportunity?” Jade asks, and now I am angry.

“I thought my personal life was none of your concern,” I say hotly, throwing his words back at him. Jade’s face has gone cold. There’s nothing human left in his eyes. They’re an eerie amber, and I know he’s as hollow as his eyes.

For the first time I realize how naïve I am. All along, I’ve thought Jade was a good guy. But he’s a big business tycoon—as petty and prejudiced as everyone else in the office, in the industry, in the world. I wonder if I’d feel a pulse in his neck, his wrist, anywhere else, or if every inch of him is as empty as those eyes.

Jade very calmly lays a piece of paper in front of me. It’s a contract. “Read the terms. We can go over them tomorrow, when you’ve had time to calm down.”

What I want to do is hit him. But I can’t, and I shouldn’t. If I didn’t anticipate this, it’s because I’m a fool. I try to make my face mirror his, to wipe the emotion off of it, but I can’t. I’m not a robot like he is. I snatch the contract off the desk, knocking the keys to the ground as I do. The mature thing would be to pick them up, but my blood is coursing hot in me, starting to bubble and burn under my skin. Jade’s right—I do need to calm down. The one button I have, and he’s pushed it good and hard. I need to take a deep breath, and maybe scream.

I do refrain from crumpling the contract in my fist or slamming the door behind me. Major points for me on that. I head straight for the balcony, grip the railing until my knuckles are white, and let out a nice, long scream.

“Jesus!” David says, stepping up beside me. I hadn’t seen him, and now I feel stupid.

I wait for a nasty comment, but there is none. David surprises me. “Want a cigarette?” he offers. “Trust me, it helps.”

I think about what Hunter would say if he knew how tempting David’s offer is. I sigh, and shake my head.

“Thanks,” I say, “but I’d better not.”

“Is it just stress?” David asks, not unkindly.

“It’s J—Mr. Puget,” I catch myself. “God, he can be a prick when he wants to be.”

David nods grimly. “Don’t I know it. I thought you were his favorite?” His question is not without bitterness, but it’s not mocking or cruel. I think he’s actually being nice to me. I ought to be grateful, but after what just happened with Jade, I’m having trouble believing the kindness is genuine.

“Guess not,” I say, shrugging. Yesterday, I would have accepted David’s change of heart, told him the whole story. Today I knew a little better, though. In real life you can’t trust everyone who smiles at you. Crocodile tears, and all that.

David finishes his cigarette, dropping the butt off the balcony instead of into the ashtray. It’s that kind of day. Hunter would bellow about flagrant abuse of the environment, but I feel a bit like flinging fiery pollutants into the stratosphere too.

The rest of the day drags by. Theoretically, I am designing a storyboard for a new account, my first solo project. The seventeen stories below us are full of other people capable of doing it, and our floor is the best and the brightest. This is my chance to prove I’m worthy of this kind of assignment, not just client relations and upper management drivel. But my brain is a furious knot, a total vacuum of inspiration. So I walk away from my desk. I wander the hallways a bit, making myself coffee and talking to Susan, Jade’s secretary.

Finally Susan gives me a pointed look. “I have a boyfriend,” she says. “Sorry.”

“I’m not hitting on you,” I sigh. I laugh, but it is a desperate thing, dry and clinging. “I’m taken too, don’t worry. I’m just…”

“Stuck?” Susan fills in, eyes warm behind her thick-rimmed glasses. I may be irritating and in the way, but even while she tries to get rid of me, she likes me, at least a little bit. She points a perfect nail down the right hallway. “Go to the thinking room. You’ve got to stop pacing, you’re making me tense.”

“And you want me out of the way,” I add, smiling.

Susan nods emphatically. “Absolutely I do,” she cries, dramatizing her exasperation and smiling back.

I do as she says. I settle stiffly onto one of the couches. I can’t relax; I’m supposed to be working and I have no slacking in my blood. “This isn’t _working_ ,” I say to myself, a little despairing.

“Something bigger on your mind?” Jade’s voice comes from behind me. My office is apparently the only place in the whole damn building where people you don’t particularly want to be around don’t sneak up on you. I should have just curled up in the armchair with one of his books, I decide too late.

I turn, and he is leaning in the doorway, the exact pose I first met him in. “You broke my brain,” I say, not accusingly. “I’m too mad right now to get any work done.”

Honest—he wants me to be honest, and so I am. It just happens that I’m being honest about my feelings right now. I’ve never been in that open a relationship before, where you could forgo being huffy and angry and toying with the feelings of yourself and others, where you could just say what you meant and not try to manipulate anyone.

Relationship? I can’t believe I thought the word relationship. Jade Puget is, first and foremost, Jade Puget, messiah of marketing and millionaire. Secondly, he is my boss. I do not have a _relationship_ with Jade Puget. I have a relationship with Hunter, with the violet in my office, with the woman I buy coffee grounds from at the supermarket. I have a relationship with the rough carpet on my bedroom floor, and my toenail clipper. I do not have a relationship with Jade Puget.

“Have you tried meditating?” Jade, who I do not have a relationship with, asks as he crosses the room. He is apparently oblivious to my meltdown. He puts his hand on the doorknob of what I’d assumed was a closet behind the rust-colored wall. He opens the door and it’s a small white room. Two windows, too high up to see out of, provide natural light. There is nothing in the room but white.

“It locks from the inside,” Jade says. “I come here to empty my mind, to whitewash it with the same kind of purity, the same unbroken peace. You’re welcome to it.”  
Jade pauses, fiddling with the doorknob. “What I said was inappropriate,” he finally spits out. “Take all the time you need to consider.”

I nod silently. Jade shuffles his feet on the blond wood, uncomfortable with his apology. Emotions really don’t come naturally to him, I realize. It frightens me a little that an apology—if that’s what this is—costs him so much.

“Are you waiting for me to say something?” I ask finally, when his shuffling and fidgeting has reached astronomic heights.

“Have you read over it yet?” he changes the subject abruptly, letting the door to the empty white room click shut and leaning against it.

“I haven’t,” I say quietly. I don’t know why I haven’t. Truth be told, I want the job, even if I’m surrounded by vampires. I want the work, I want the money, I want the office and I want the view. I want to _do_ something with my life. The contract could demand my firstborn child—not that I’m in any position to reproduce, but we could always adopt—and that wouldn’t deter me. I can’t understand my own hesitation.

Am I holding myself back out of genuine concern for Hunter’s feelings? I’m not sure anymore. If I was that selfless, I wouldn’t be here to begin with. Why did I take the internship if I didn’t want the job?

I think I’m terrified to let my world change. If I hang up my martyr’s cross, who will I be? Without the struggle to get by, without the intellectual frustration, what will define me? All I’ll have left as an excuse not to live my life will be the guilt of taking this job even while I knew how it hurt Hunter.

Is that it? Am I afraid to be free? Is getting what I’ve always said I wanted really so terrifying?

Yes. Because once I have it, what do I do with it? What is left to want for? What will I have left to dream of?  
My whole life I have fought to get here. I’ve pushed myself to ceaseless excellence, been so motivated I’ve almost gone mad. Who will Adam Carson be, if I stop pushing?

I certainly won’t have anything to pity myself for anymore. There will be no more whining, no more woe-is-me, no more martyrdom.

I swallow too hard. Suddenly, it’s freezing in here. If you strip away enough layers, this is what I am; a pale, pink, quivering center, wet and weak and afraid, a coward, an oyster.

I refuse to be that creature I refuse to run from freedom, preferring to cower and cry in my own slime. Hell, I refuse to be ruled by guilt. I don’t care if it scares me; I’ll face my fear. I’ll start it down and dive headfirst into it, and relish every second of my horror because every second will be one that separates me from the slimy weak thing at my core.

I look up at Jade, meeting his eyes suddenly. “Yes,” I say, and my voice is strong, drunk on the sudden intensity inside my head. I am fearless. “I want the job. Let’s sign the papers.”

Jade’s brows furrow but only for a moment. He replaces the confusion with a cool, remotely pleased look. “That’s good news, Mr. Carson,” he says, all business. “If you’ll join me in my office, we can begin.”

Mr. Carson: that’s who I am now, I realize. They will put my name up on my door and it will be known on all twenty-two floors, even the accounting department. I will get business cards. My name will slip into Isaac Mercer’s paperwork. Someday I might even shake his hand, and he will know me as Mr. Carson, junior executive in brand development, Mercer Pacific San Francisco.

I am going to have to work on my handshake.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	7. Jade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't own, didn't happen.

Adam and I stay late. By the time all the papers are signed, everyone else on the floor has gone home. They probably have families, lovers, children. Dinner plans.

Brainwashed sons of bitches, every one.

I hang around my office and let Adam scamper off to his boyfriend, still speechless at the prospect of full health and dental, a 401k, and of course his six digit salary. Anyone else would have negotiated for more than what we offered him, 120 annually, but not Adam. Leila made twice that at least. Sometimes his naiveté is truly refreshing, but I know how jaded he’ll end up. Maybe it would have been better, kinder, to fire him instead of offering this job, and I could have found someone better suited to our business of manipulation, deceit, and outright fabrication (which is only a nice word for lies). But Adam Carson was the man I wanted for the job, maybe because of how ill-suited he is, and Mercer Pacific is my kingdom. Here, I get what I want. It is my job to tell people how fat and ugly and unhappy they are, and then sell them the empty things that won’t fix any of that. I am not in the business of mercy.

When I ease the Z8 out of the executive lot, Adam’s Bentley is still hugging the curb in one of the spacious parking spots. There are only ten or fifteen spaces, but there’s a nice oasis, thick green grass, a chunk of natural rock, a gnarled old tree. The lot is not large, but when all the senior executives are in the office it gleams like a car showroom. I drive past the sleek black car and, absurdly, hope he likes it. That is a strange thought for me. It’s a Bentley, for God’s sake. If he doesn’t like it, there’s something wrong with him; and anyway, why should I care? It’s a company car for a company man. He’ll drive it because it’s his, and he’ll like it for the same. It’s no care of mine.

When I get home, Marissa is drunk. I don’t know where Em is. I hope at Scott’s—for a brief, wildly paternal moment, I don’t want him to witness whatever is coming.

My wife’s rich dark hair is curled, tumbling gorgeously down her sculpted shoulders. A strappy silk negligee leaves most of her flawless dusky back bare, down to the hollow of her lower back. The pink silk catches again on the roundness of her ass, and hangs barely low enough to cover it. The curve where it meets her endless legs flashes at me as she turns to face me. I walk through the French doors to our bedroom. She has the patio doors flung open and the taste of night air fills the room. She is even more magnificent from the front and, remembering sex, something deep in me stirs. Her breasts press tight to the silk, threatening to spill free with every movement, and her nipples are hard, dark outlines against the pale fabric. The silk is nearly sheer, and it is short, hugging her thighs. Marissa sips her glass of wine and sits on the edge of our medieval canopy bed. She crosses her legs, giving me a shadowy glimpse of what’s between them, and my body is willing.

I remember the lingerie my wife used to favor, garments so scant and provocative even I’d give in to her. It was years ago, of course; before Emmanuel. Before the scar. Before we stopped sleeping together. After the scar, it’s only negligees. Her highlighted hip bones, her rib cage, her smooth flat stomach; all are lost to whispers of silk and lace. Anything to hide the scar.

I step closer and see the tears on her cheeks. “I’m hideous,” she whispers, and I know what kind of a day she’s had.

In spite of everything, looking at my beautiful wife like this has me growing hard. Arousal has never been very logical with me. I know sex with Marissa—it’s nice, I suppose, but as much as my body wants it my mind rebels. I only reach release imagining bodies as sleek and nubile but so very different from hers, and it’s not a farce either of us enjoys. My body ignores all this truth.

I ignore it. I sit down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. I’m careful—I don’t know what kind of woman I’m married to today. She could be cruel or crying, vindictive or violent. “Why would someone as beautiful as you think that?” I ask her softly.

And for moment at least, she is only Marissa, my beautiful, broken wife. “Trent pushed up my teddy,” she whisper-sobs. I don’t need to ask who Trent is. I don’t want to know. I look around at the candles, the one untouched wineglass, the flower petals. What I _do_ want to ask is if he was here, in my house, in our bed. But I only smell candles and Issa’s perfume; no sex. No cologne.

“And after, he couldn’t perform,” my wife is still crying softly. Marissa only uses euphemisms when she’s playing the victim, soft and hurt. The lost little girl inside her is gentle and shy; but Marissa wants to be strong, and when she’s herself she’s fiery and vulgar. It’s not the woman I loved and married, but I’m the one who made her so. I’m the one who made her need to be so different, so brave and strong.

“He made excuses. He said he was just tired. And I—I tried to believe him. But I called today, and he—he doesn’t want to see me anymore. I’m too ugly. He’s repulsed by me after seeing—after seeing _it_!”

Marissa’s sobs escalate. The scar. God, how that scar has haunted us. It’s so much a part of the family I feel like it should have a name. It’s ruined her. Not just her career—but Marissa, the woman, the girl who’s just as gone as the boy I once was. The one _she_ loved. It doesn’t matter that she would have gotten bored with him before long and done the same; it matters that he did it first, that it was because of the scar. It’s not the ending of her tryst that matters; it’s only the scar. It’s only ever the scar.

I understand the candles and the negligee now. If it wasn’t for Brock, or Trent, or whichever blond brainless hunk she’s sleeping with at the moment. It’s for me. I understand—if not even her husband will fuck her tonight, then it’s true. She’s repulsive. She’s so horrible she’s made me gay.

Now is not the time to tell her she’s ridiculous, to talk sense into her. Of course she’s beautiful—men twenty years younger line up to fuck her. I’m perversely proud of that. it’s not really their fault that they’re horrified at the physical proof of Marissa’s age, her family, her life outside of sex and seduction. Marissa picks empty-headed beauties, no deeper than our annual rainfall. Of course they balk at that awful scar.

I can’t abandon her now. For a moment I imagine laying her back on our bed, negligee bunched up above her thighs, fucking her good and hard. Hard already, just the thought of it pushes me closer to the edge.

I haven’t had sex since we conceived Em. It’s been a _long_ time.

Part of me knows it won’t go the way the fantasy’s unrolling. If I finish at all, and probably I won’t, I’ll be imagining some actor, some attractive man I’ve passed on the street; and Marissa will know it, even as she cries someone else’s name, and after she’ll yell and throw something at me. But that part of me is no longer functioning.

I put my hand behind her head and pull her face to mine, kissing her harder than she likes. Marissa’s mouth opens to mine and she sighs, laying back and pulling me down with her.

I’m pressed against her and she knows I want it, so when I break the kiss sighing her eyes open, confused.

I lift the wine glass from her hand seconds before it spills, staining the comforter, and set it on the bedside table. I give her a smile, feeling the sadness in my own eyes. I run my fingers up her legs, under the negligee and onto her smooth stomach. I tease the silk up over her hips and her eyes glitter in anticipation.

As usual, I disappoint her. I bare her stomach and gaze down at the scar. It’s been years since I’ve seen it, and either my memory has been kind or time has not been. It’s worse than I remember, twisted and torn mounds of shining skin, stretched in the purple line of a phantom scalpel. There was an infection, torn stitches, and poor healing all at once; my wife’s flawless skin hadn’t stood a chance.

I close my eyes and kiss the skin, running my tongue over its awful knots. I make sure she can feel my undaunted erection, ground into her leg, and I kiss her scar, love her scar, feel my heart fill with her grief.

I kiss it a final time and pull the silk down again. Sheer and moist, it sticks to the wet skin. I look into her tear-filled eyes and cup my hands around her hips. “All of you is beautiful,” I tell her, and kiss her lips chastely.

The tears coming down Issa’s cheeks are silent while I roll off of her, but these are tears I can do nothing about. I’ve done what I can, and it’s nowhere near enough. Instead of straighten my clothing and leave her, striding into the bathroom. I lock the door and take myself in hand.

If I think, shame and stubborn pride will overcome me. So I don’t think. I close my eyes and remember.

I remember the only kiss that’s ever mattered.

Maybe I should hate that kiss. Before it, I might never have known what right felt like. If you never learn right, you don’t know everything else is wrong.

That’s the thing about Isaac, though. He’s impossible to hate.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	8. Adam

There is no way in hell I can take this thing home. I read in the contract that it’s a Continental GT, five years old, with only a hundred thousand miles on it. I go over the terms on the ride home, though I lose my place at every bump. There are many bumps. The bus is cheaper than the trolley, but there’s no tourists this time of day, and the trolley comes more often than the bus and the stop is closer to work (but farther from home). It’s only a few cents difference; the trolley is scenic and doesn’t smell funny the way the bus usually does. So I take the bumps.

I sit there, reading over all the benefits and my salary and my brand new 401k, and holding dreams come true in my lap, all I can think of is how I’m going to break it to Hunter. I’m so busy worrying about how _he’s_ going to take it that I haven’t taken it at all; it hasn’t occurred to me to be happy, or want to celebrate, or so much as smile. Instead it’s poisoned me with dread. Another point for Hunter, I guess. Maybe he’s right after all.

I get off the trolley and walk the opposite direction of home, towards FreshMart. If I hurry, I can surprise Hunt in time for his lunch break.

I duck into a florist’s shop on the way. I pick out a sunflower, which I know will make him smile. At the register, I make an impromptu decision. There’s no money in my wallet; I know I have a twenty tucked away at home, but the trolley fare took my last dollar. I only hesitate a moment before putting the credit card in the clerk’s hand.

I am not yesterday’s Adam Carson, and I’m not tomorrow’s either. My next paycheck will change everything about our lives, and before long we can move to a neighborhood where wayward sons don’t prowl the streets like leather-clad jackals. Until then, well, I’ll need more than a twenty to make ends meet. It’s slimy and it’s wrong, but I make sure to throw the receipt away so Hunter will never find it. It’s not right to use the card behind his back, and I _will_ tell him, just… not right now. Not yet. If I tell him all of it at once, it might kill him. He might kill me. And right now, the only thing that matters to me is that the man I love deserve a flower. I will do what is necessary to make sure he gets it.

It starts drizzling a block or two before I get there, so I start jogging. That’s how I show up: wet, out of breath, clutching Hunt’s sunflower to my heavy chest.

“Is—Hunter—here?” I puff at the cashier. She cracks her gum. Her name is Whitney, and Hunter despairs her lack of devotion to the cause. He can’t accept that someone would work simply to get paid, especially a young teenage girl with bleached hair. It’s beautiful, to me, how sweet and sincere he is; it hasn’t made _living_ easy, but loving him is the simplest thing in the world.

Whitney gives me a look that implies I’m the loveless bastard who’s pinned the “Stay Fresh” badge to her apron, and points to the back of the store. I find Hunt unloading cauliflower from crates and stacking it neatly on a refrigerated produce shelf. He is humming to himself, very concentrated on making the display look nice. Counter-intuitively, he puts the worst-looking veggies up front; his display, while artfully arranged, looks like a shelter for battered cauliflower. He explained to me once that he feels bad for the damaged produce, and hopes that by putting them in front he increases their chances of finding a home and happiness. This is the most adorable sentiment I’ve ever heard; although I wonder if he’s considered the possibility that they have thrown themselves willfully against the sides of their crates so as _not_ to be eaten, and that he is sabotaging their careful efforts of self-preservation. Maybe being born beautiful is a death sentence to a cauliflower. Hunter’s theory that all they need is love is a little happier, though, so I don’t say anything.

I watch him for a moment, the warmth built up in me making all the bad news foggy, erasing everything but him.

“God, I love you,” I sigh, unable to hold it back.

Hunt turns with a surprised grin. It might be his smile that I love best. “Addy!” he cries, gently discarding his bruised cauliflower to throw his arms around my neck.

When he releases me, I hand him the sunflower, ignoring the pang of guilt as I recall the crumpled receipt.

The grin that bursts across his face reaches to my core. I hug him, careful of the flower, and say into his ear, “You are my happiness.” Hunt laces his fingers through mine and kisses my cheek.

“You are too cute,” I hear from behind us. We turn to see Natasha, the fifty-four year old hippy who owns FreshMart with her husband Bert. She smells like most hippies do, and would benefit from wearing a bra; but Hunt adores her. Her black dreadlocks are pulled back in a loose tie, and she’s wearing a homemade maroon tunic under her green apron. It matches the tinted lenses of her glasses (which look more Elton than Lennon to me, but I’ll take that to my grave). The fabric is thin as rice paper, airy and comfortable, the tattoos on her sun-wrinkled arms showing. When Natasha was young, I’m sure she was beautiful. Now she look sun-dried and organic as the tomatoes in aisle three. She’s got a good heart, though, and I don’t have any problems with her. Our lifestyle views just don’t agree on the appropriate amount of incense burning, I guess.

Natasha smiles and waves her hand, rings on each finger. “Go ahead, take the night off,” she urges. “Cauliflower doesn’t stand a chance next to true love.”

I am a little apprehensive to tell Hunt my news, but it’s always welcome when I get to spend time with him. He’s beaming as he leads me to the van, singing along with the radio as he drives. He chatters for a while about his ostentatiously gay friend Colin, a line-dancer from Berkley, who finally pried an engagement out of his conservative partner Matt. I smile and nod, hoping he’s not trying to make a suggestion. I am definitely not the Colin of our situation.

“How was work?” he finally chirps, forgetting to sound sullen about it.

My heart sinks. I am going to ruin his mood. “Well, I got the job.”

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	9. Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The much anticipated Hunter POV! I don't own, it never happened, oh how sweet life would be if it had...

I don’t know, maybe he’s trying to get us killed, but the van is barreling towards a light post and it’s a near thing. At the last second I regain control. The great grey beast grinds to a halt nearly parallel across the alley, panting from its efforts and foaming with sweat.

The shrieking stops when I realize it’s me. I had no idea I sounded so much like a little girl.

“I didn’t even know I remember the Hail Mary,” Adam says through gritted teeth.

Abashed, I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. Terror has drained the blood from his skin and left him whiter than an endangered tiger, though I’m sure his heart’s pumping hard enough to power the whole block. I have only gotten two moving violations this year, and my license isn’t even suspended right now, so really, he shouldn’t be mad. He’s the one spouting doomsday prophecies like they’re casual conversation about the weather, after all—did he really think saying _that_ was a good plan while _I_ was driving? Sometimes it’s like he forgets other people can think and feel and react to things too.

“Sorry,” I say, a little sheepish. “It’s just—it sounded like you said—”

Adam leans over the console and slides the gearshift into park, I guess to avoid a repeat of almost certain death. Seatbelts and airbags were not exactly standard issue in 1642, or whenever the heaving beast was made. Yeah, nice that he trusts me.

“I got a job at Mercer Pacific,” Adam repeats, and there is no traffic cataclysm to blot out his words this time. He means it. It’s true.

I suddenly have the urge to drive the van into that light post after all. “You mean they offered you one?”I try to sound calm, but my voice comes out so strangled and squeaky we know it’s a lie. It’s just that this whole advertising thing has always been like a bad dream for me. It comes up from time to time, but it’s always gone by morning. I guess it was easier to pretend it was a phase he’d get over when Adam worked at Best Buy.

The thing is, he’s already changing. I mean, not in a big way, but it’s like ever since he got that stupid internship nothing has been good enough for him. Like our apartment. There is one incident of gang violence and suddenly it’s a bad neighborhood. Homeless Eddie pulls a knife one time and suddenly he’s not allowed to sleep on the couch anymore. It’s not like he even pulled it on one of us! In fact, he was _protecting_ us from the ten-foot gorilla he thought he saw but was probably just a side effect of the drugs. And it’s like a little harmless shower rot is a flesh-eating virus, the way he’s been going on about it. The money worship is already starting. Just a few nights ago, I heard him say he needed new clothes for work. _Needed_ new _clothes_ , like what he has isn’t enough, like there aren’t people starving on the streets every night not even blocks away, like having a shirt on your back isn’t a luxury in some parts of the world. Adam never used to be greedy; I wish I could say I didn’t know what had gotten into him, but I do. It’s that corporate altar where he works. People are becoming sacrificial lambs to him. He’s feeding their blood to his almighty dollar, like those little bits of paper mean anything anyway. They’re brainwashing him! Next thing I know, he’ll be buying yachts and wearing fur and letting possessions take the place of love and companionship and comfort.

I try to clear my head. This is Adam, my Adam. I know him better than this. I would trust him with my life—why can’t I trust him with this job? I can’t doubt him like this. It’s just as sick as the distribution of wealth in this country.

“I know I should have discussed it with you first, but my boss really pushed it on me,” Adam says. He doesn’t even look ashamed. Instead, he’s all confident and tries to meet my eyes, like he suddenly knows what’s best and I couldn’t possibly argue. It’s like having a conversation with my father.

“You mean you already agreed for sure?” I ask, scowling a little at the mention of his boss. He sounds pushy and rich and soulless, and he’s all Adam talks about these days. Maybe I’m a little bit jealous. That doesn’t make me a bad person. I’m just worried that, I don’t know, Adam’s going to fall in love with the lifestyle I’ve always condemned and maybe forget about wanting to be with me. And now my fears are justified—his boss is stealing him away. I already didn’t like the man; now I’m obligated to loathe him. You shouldn’t say you hate a person unless you wish they would die or had never existed to begin with; I don’t want to be responsible for his death or anything, but I wouldn’t mind it if this holier-than-thou Jade Puget character had never existed. “Are you saying that he forced you to accept? Because these people have no ethics, Adam, no _morals_ —”

Adam lays a finger on my lips. “Jade didn’t force me to do anything. But he did say some really wonderful things about me, and Isaac Mercer himself wanted me on the team. The opportunity was just too amazing to pass up. Why don’t we just give it a try? Nothing will change. And if it starts to, even a little bit, I won’t renew my contract, okay? I promise.”

Adam is trying to placate me. Trying to help. But as much as I swore not to doubt him again, as much as I know he loves me, the word “contract” is salt in the already screaming wound of being excluded from such a major decision about our future.

“Contract?” I repeat stiffly. As much as I’d like to let this go and move on, I can’t. I can’t even look at him right now. It goes against everything I have ever stood for, everything I am. Everything _we_ are. I pick at the vinyl upholstery of my seat so I don’t have to see his face. The maroon starts to flake off and cling to my fingernails. God, this van is a piece of crap. Then I remember Adam’s complaint about it, and my impassioned defense of its unfailing service. Adam had gotten irritated and showed me the bill from the mechanic. It’s just money—I didn’t understand why it was so important to him. Another stupid fight. If I were feeling generous, flaky car seat static-clinging to my hand, I’d apologize and tell him he was right. We _do_ need a new car. What were his words? Something ‘reliable and fuel-efficient’. But what else would I fit FreshMart’s organically farmed fish shipment in? I pick it up from the docks every Wednesday and Saturday, which admittedly doesn’t make the van smell especially good.

The point is not the way fish smells, though. It is that I am _not_ feeling generous, that all my benevolence dried up and blew away at the word contract. My bleeding heart and unending patience, the river of serenity and tolerance that centers my soul, is so much as cracked earth and tumbleweeds right this second. Adam is just going to have to deal with that.

Adam, always so damnably cool-headed, just gives me a soft smile, like he sees into and through me and knows exactly what I’m thinking, exactly what it feels like, exactly why I can’t meet him halfway. He catches my vinyl-flecked hand in his own and squeezes. “It’s only a year, babe,” he tells me, as if that is good news. “That’s all I signed on for. And there’s good news, too! I get full health insurance, and we can put you on my plan. We won’t have to worry about getting sick anymore! I mean, you could get a heart transplant, and they’d pay for it!”

“Why would I want one of those?” I ask. He’s changing the subject. Anyway, I didn’t know I was _supposed_ to worry about getting sick. I have asthma, and I’m never in a frenzy or anything about it. Is he?

Adam squeezes my hand again, and I finally meet his eyes. They’re full of sadness, longing, and unbearable warmth. I knew this would happen if I met his eyes. Suddenly I want to cry, I love him so much; I can’t stand to be fighting. Damn those beautiful blue eyes.

“Why don’t we go home,” he says gently, and I hate him for loving me so purely when I can’t get over this one stupid flaw.

And I love him. I love him so much I can’t breathe, and both our hearts scream together, begging and bleeding for air, for my acceptance of his one tiny flaw.

I take my hand back and slam the van into drive. Tiny flaw? I can’t. I won’t. I simply must not forsake everything I’ve ever believed in and fought for just to add a little light to Adam’s beautiful eyes.

I shake my head. “I love you more than anything,” I tell him, “and that is the only reason I can live with this. If you’re asking me to love you more than I hate your job, I can do that. But don’t ask me to give you my blessing. Just—don’t make me tell you it’s okay this time.”

I think that this is a very noble concession. Maybe even prize-winning. Of course I love him enough to forgive him. But the choices he’s making still hurt me. And if he’ll keep choosing, I’ll stop hiding that it hurts.

The hope is that he won’t be able to live with hurting me and he’ll forget about Mercer Pacific and his stupid boss and the whole consumerism thing, but I am not selfish enough to say it out loud.

“I’ll suffer for you, but my cause won’t,” I say quietly.

I feel Adam stiffen in the passenger seat. I’ve made him angry, but right this second I don’t care. Let him know what it feels like for once. Just because I’m the bleeding heart of our little family doesn’t mean I should be the only one who gets hurt.

“Okay, Hunt,” he says, trying hard to sound like he’s not angry. “I can live with that.”

I bite my lip. We’re living with a lot these days, and I just don’t know how much longer we can.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	10. Jade

I turn the key and nothing happens.

“Shit,” I mutter. Battery must be dead. Did I leave the headlights on like a jackass? Maybe. Probably.

My father taught me years ago to keep jumper cables in my trunk at all times. But when you drive a BMW that purrs like a well-fed leopard and cost more than your father’s house, it starts to seem a little pointless—a waste of trunk space which, in a car like mine, you don’t have a lot of anyway. Cables are one thing. Performance is another. I guess I figured that one was as good as the other.

The universe says I’m wrong.

I glance over at Adam’s Bentley, parking in its usual spot. So far, giving the kid a job is one of Isaac’s best ideas, and he’s had a lot of good ones. Adam’s a natural, clients love him, and even if it’s unrefined, his style is a winning one. His last two projects have earned the company great press, and I love that smile of his. Hell, just today he pitched to me a volunteer project he wants to do for some food pantry or something. He swore to do it on his own time, just wanted to put the company name behind it. More good press. And, if he’ll give me a jump, I vow to go out of my way to let Isaac say “I told you so”.

I jog across the lot and catch Carson in the lobby, a rare stroke of luck. I’ve been doing Marissa’s running, so I’m not even out of breath. I’m now on a first-name basis with the treadmill. My secret dream is to get ahead so I can harass _her_ , instead of the other way around, but I think she’s deliberately pushing herself to stay at least a mile ahead. No matter how many extra miles I sneak in, I only ever get close to the lead. (Maybe it shouldn’t be a contest. Maybe we’re crazy and wrong, wrong for each other, wrong for the world. But I know for a fact that she’s winning, so that’s what I’m focusing on.)

“Adam!” I call out. “Glad I caught you.”

Adam stops and let me catch up. He’s headed away from the way I’ve come, which confuses me. He’s walking _away_ from the executive lot, _away_ from the car. Does this make sense? No.

“Are you heading home?” I ask, not quite conversationally. I still have my business voice on.

Adam nods. I can’t read the look on his face. “Do you need me to stay late?” he asks. “Because I really shouldn’t be home late tonight.”

I wait for him to mention his boyfriend, but the words go unspoken. For some reason, I’m almost relieved.

“No, nothing like that,” I assure him. Wouldn’t want to keep him from his happy little home. “I was wondering if you could jump me.”

Adam stares blankly at me, and if I were warm-blooded I’d blush. “My car,” I revise my statement. “The battery’s dead.”

Comprehension sets in and Adam does the blushing. “Oh, god, I thought you meant… never mind. Sure, we can use my car. The one in the lot. Yeah, I drive that thing everywhere. It’s great.”

I’m not sure what he’s babbling about, but the car is the part that matters, so we walk out to it. Adam gives it a blank look, and I’m getting a little impatient. Small talk and dawdling is just not my thing.

“Oh, right,” he says softly, and starts pawing through his bag for keys, muttering. When he moves on to his pockets, I wonder how I never noticed his disorganized streak before.

Adam’s face flames red when the search is finally exhausted. No keys. “Did you leave them in your desk?” I prompt, coercing him along. It’s not that I’m in such a hurry to get home as I can almost feel the traffic building up, the minutes piling onto my commute until a short drive is an hour, an hour and a half, an eternity behind the wheel, trapped between A and B. I hate that.

Adam looks at his shoes, which I then notice are seriously scuffed. He is the wrong person to be around when I’m agitated. Today is quickly becoming a celebration of his flaws. It worms under my skin the same was Scott Pearson’s father does. How can you live like this, I want to ask, all pear-cut ice that will cut better than diamond ever did. It’s not like I came from good breeding, but look where I am now. My son practically has a pedigree.

“They’re at home,” he says, almost too quietly to hear.  
I’m thrown off my mental tangent. “Then how did the car get here?” I ask. Even to me it sounds cold.

“I took the trolley. I always do.” Adam’s confession, once begun, pours out so quickly that I wonder if the words burn his tongue. “The car hasn’t left the lot. I’ve never, um, never driven it. I can’t take it home. If Hunt sees it he’ll, I don’t know, think my soul is corrupted. He’ll kill me. It’d be betrayal to him. Somehow. God, I don’t know, I just have to leave it here. It’d probably get stolen where I live anyway.”

He finally stops talking long enough for me to think. “I’m sorry, what?” I say, even though I’ve heard him. I just don’t understand what he’s said. I don’t mean to sound nasty—or maybe I do—but he winces at my words.

“I don’t know how else to say it,” he says miserably. “That’s it.”

“So you really take the trolley every day? Isn’t that strictly for tourists?” I force myself to say. It’s not the appropriate response, but I can’t figure out what is. Be less cold, Jade, I chide myself. He’s not being so absolutely irritating on purpose. I can’t comprehend a single rational thought behind his outburst. I have never heard of cars corrupting souls before. I _have_ heard of tourist traps degrading the city and raising taxes, though, which might be a better point for his live-in activist boyfriend to trumpet. Bentleys have been called a lot of things by a lot of people, but to me at least, betrayal is a new one.

Adam laughs at what I’ve said, relaxing. He shouldn’t do that; my forced superficial comment was witless and unnatural. I’m not thawing. “Well, I’m certainly the only guy on it in a suit,” he tells me amiably. “It comes more often than the bus, though.”

“I’ve never been,” I tell him, fishing my cell out of my pocket. Clearly Adam will be no help to me. Bitterly, I begin to wonder if he’s any kind of asset to the company when he’s too cowardly to drive his own car for fear of a gay man’s wrath. This is ungracious of me to think. I have trouble suppressing these things. “Well, go catch your trolley,” I say, a little meaner than I intend. “I’ll call Jean for a ride.”

Adam hangs around, though, kicking listlessly at the curb and further destroying his shoes.

“Jean Marèchal,” the driver lilts professionally. The connection isn’t a good one; he must be driving.

“Yes, Jean, how soon can you be at Mercer Pacific?” I ask curtly. There are good moods, at least sometimes, but this is not one of them.

Jean is unruffled. He even laughs a little bit. “I’m afraid I am at the little master’s disposal at the moment,” he tells me. “Our destination is, I am informed, top secret.”

“Enough bullshit, Jean,” I say heatedly. “I need a fucking ride.”

That is when Em takes his phone. “Dad?” My son’s voice is uncertain. “Jean’s driving. Talking on the phone endangers us all.”

“Emmanuel,” I seethe, struggling to remain calm. That means getting colder; it’s difficult not to yell, but I’m mindful of my wife’s misguided rules. If I take her approach and pretend to be carved of ice, it’s easier. “I need the car, okay? Otherwise I’m stranded at work.”

“Can’t you get a cab?” Em asks sullenly. He’s being a little bastard, as usual. At least my son is consistently a pain in the ass. Marissa only sometimes mistakes herself for a hernia. At least with Emmanuel, I know what to expect.

Nothing.

“It’s not like you even _want_ to be at home,” Em’s complaining. God, sometimes I hate him. Sometimes I wish he’d never—

There do remain a few thoughts I won’t let myself finish. It’s almost a relief to find that out. “Have Jean take you home,” I tell him, pretending it’s not a command. The only reason I’m being so pleasant is because Adam is still standing next to me. I do not have the patience to deal with a dead battery right now; I _certainly_ don’t have the patience to deal with my miserable excuse for a child. “This is asking nicely,” I add. I’ll admit that that is a bit unnecessary.

“You know what, Dad?” You’ve ignored me my whole life, so starting now, I’m gonna ignore _you_.”

And with that particular flourish, my charming son hangs up the phone. God, how I wish that was true! I wish I’d just ignored him his whole life, maybe even not known he’d existed. Then I wouldn’t be dealing with _this_ right now.

“Fuck!” I say with feeling, forgetting for a moment that Adam is still standing there. I knew we should have given the brat to Isaac.

“A taxi it is,” I say, for Adam’s benefit. He looks a little panicked, so I pretend to be thinking nice thoughts, when I want to do is swear at the top of my lungs. I swallow painfully and make myself offer, “Want to share one?”

“I can barely afford the trolley,” Adam says, with a look on his face immediately after like he hadn’t meant to.

“With what I’m paying you?” I ask skeptically. Sunk deep in this glorious mood, excuses are another thing I despise.

Adam blushes yet again. “Well, um, we don’t actually get our checks till the end of the month, so I don’t really have any money right now.”

A thought occurs to me, and it is so vile and suited to my mood that I almost say it out loud, half out of cruelty, half curiosity. Is Adam _poor_? Have I unwittingly hired the man I used to be?

No. Most definitely not. No matter how much money he doesn’t have, I know I’ve never been like Adam. Even twenty years ago, I was never like him—and then I realize why I like the kid so much, when he’s not being ostensible. No matter how long he works here or how much he goes through, he’s not ever going to turn into me. And that is a beautiful thing. To hear Isaac tell it, Em is me already; Marissa’s traded flesh for stone; even my mother, my little brother and his little wife, all of them let frostbite chill their hearts simply from being exposed to me. Well, not Adam. I can’t tell if he’s too sweet or just too stupid—and contrary to my current belief, I really don’t find him unintelligent—but he will never become me.

Words are coming out of my mouth that I don’t mean to speak. “Let me cover it, then. Give me something to do on the ride home.” Something inside me has snapped; I am officially going out of my way to be nice to him on one of my worst days this month. I pause and rethink the words I’ve just said. For God’s sake, he’s going to think I’m trying to pick him up if I keep misspeaking like this. If I had a sense of humor, I’d laugh. “Someone to talk to,” I correct myself firmly, chasing the bewildered flush back onto his cheeks. “I’m always a little frightened of the drivers.”

And there, right there, I’ve voluntarily humanized myself. I don’t know what’s been done to me, but clearly, I am not myself. These are not Jade Puget’s words or thoughts or actions.

Adam thinks it over. It sounds suspiciously like charity to both of us. I don’t know why I said anything. Do I have some perverse desire to see what kind of hovel he’s too afraid to drive the Bentley into, the front door as scuffed as the shoes he kicks off behind it? Whatever’s behind my unprecedented gesture, I trust it even less than a cab driver, who I _do_ find a bit frightening.

“If you stay for dinner,” Adam decides, and I understand the bargain he’s made with himself. If he does something kind in return, it’s an exchange, not a donation; it’s a favor, not pity. I like the bargain—I don’t believe in pity. Pity is a disease, and I’m a little worried I’ve been infected. “If you stay for dinner, I will gladly be your escort home.”

What sounds worse? A meal with Adam, or a meal with my wife? That’s easy. I’d rather have dinner with the Bush family than with my wife. I know the second I step into his apartment I will wish I am at home, surrounded by my nice things, drinking my nice booze. But when I’m home alone drinking, Adam will be a pity-scarred plague in my thoughts, Adam with his bright grin and big blue eyes and the way he says my name, like he’s Sir Gawain and should win an award for the valor of it. Well, I already have a plague, already have the night Zac told me he and Annette were engaged, the night he took me in his arms like he meant to keep me there and kissed me so sweetly I thought I’d die.

So I say yes.

Adam sits on the curb while we wait for the cab, and has nothing to say. Neither do I.

“So, is Jean your son, or…?” Adam finally says awkwardly. It’s good of him not to pretend he wasn’t listening in. I appreciate that.

“No, Jean’s our driver,” I say. “Em, that’s my son, Emmanuel.”

“That’s festive,” Adam says after a pause, and the silence falls thick on us again. I am overly conscious of swallowing. I can’t remember what position my lips sit in naturally. My cuticles itch.

To distract myself from self-awareness, I study his suit, fabric snagging unhappily on the curb. If I’m not mistaken, I’ve never seen him wearing a different one. I haven’t paid much attention to what he’s been wearing, but maybe I should.

“You have a consultation coming up with Mr. Dorsinger soon, don’t you?” I ask abruptly. The affluent man is going to notice the sorry state of Adam’s wardrobe, and it’ll reflect poorly on the firm. We’re changing Dorsinger’s representative as it is, and the elbows of Adam’s jacket have worn thin indeed. I can imagine the fat man sputtering at the sight of the fraying cuffs. No, it certainly won’t facilitate the transition to have Adam dressed like this. Even so, I try not to sound like too big a dick. “Well, you’re practically management now; you should dress the part. It’ll inspire confidence in your abilities, which is something you’re going to need with Dorsinger, especially at your age. If you used a cane and were incontinent, then he’d probably recognize your value, but he’s suspicious of anyone younger than him, especially when he’s better-dressed. It’s a pissing contest with him. Take your company card and go shopping. Hugo Boss, Ralph Lauren, somewhere nice. Get a couple of suits, maybe some shoes, a whole new get-up. You’re not an intern anymore. The spring line at Gucci is very nice; and maybe you could stop by the Coach counter and pick up a briefcase.”

Despite my slightly feeble efforts to be gentle, Adam’s abashed. He thinks it’s criticism, and maybe it is. I want what’s best for my company. I think Adam Carson’s it—but he’s got to dress the part. If he’s going to look like one of the Boxcar Children, I can’t very well let him represent Mercer Pacific.

“I’m not gay enough to ask you to come shopping with me,” Adam says lightly in an attempt to mask his discomfort, “but I’ve really never done this before.”

“Wear nice underwear,” I advise, wondering how he can just _talk_ about it like that, like it isn’t some nasty thing to hide under the rug. “Every clerk in the store will probably see you in it.”

The silence settles again. I start to contrive ways to get out of dinner before the cab shows up to save me. I am worse at small talk than I remember being.

The cab ride is not just awkward, it’s agony. It doesn’t have to be. I know this. Even if there’s nothing else to say, we could talk about work. We could complain about Davey, like I do with Isaac, but then Adam will think I’m a gossip. We could discuss the Dorsinger account, or I could apologize for my wardrobe diatribe; but all I can think of is the boyfriend.

It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it, a thousand times too loud in our sea of silence. “Should you call ahead and let him know I’m joining you?”

Concern flits across Adam’s face. “Do you think I should? Not that it hasn’t occurred to me, I mean, but he’s probably still at work.”

“It just seemed like you needed to get his permission for things,” I saw acidly. I have lost control of my tongue, and tension in the cab is rising faster than the meter.

Adam gives me a piercing look. “Jade, if my sexuality encroaches on your personal comfort, you certainly don’t have to come up.” His voice is a little cold from frankness. “I was uncomfortable with it too, believe me. I still don’t like telling people. But it wasn’t just a quality of life decision; for me, it was only refusing to give up my chance at love.”

Adam seems to realize he’s still speaking and stops, embarrassed.

I wonder if that’s what it is that rubs me so wrong, if I’m simply uncomfortable with Adam’s sexuality. I expect every straight person in my office to have a sex life; is it so crazy that two openly gay men might enjoy intimacy? Ice grips my gut just at the thought. I am uncomfortable with _everyone’s_ sexuality, starting with my own, and being confronted with it only confuses the already blurred lines of my own.

How can you be gay, I want to ask him. He’s happy—if he’s gay, he should be miserable, ashamed and in denial. That’s just part of the condition, because that’s what it is; it’s an affliction, not a lifestyle. How can he treat it like anything but a curse?

“It’s a little different when your chance at love gives up on you,” I mutter to myself, not sure if I really believe what I’m saying, seeing Isaac.

I realize that I am tired of seeing Isaac. How many years has it been? Eighteen? It is time to move on. To forget that kiss. Maybe it’s not too late to be cured; to love my wife and share her bed and want it to be that way.

I nearly laugh out loud. That’s ridiculous. For the last decade or so, I have coped with sex by avoiding it, denying all human instinct and stripping myself of sexuality—of humanity. I don’t see myself as a sexual object; I don’t see _anyone_ that way. Sometimes Marissa really pushes that boundary, but I fight it. How else could I see Isaac more than once a month and not kill myself? How else could I be celibate for sixteen goddamn years and not bat an eyelash? (Well, okay, the eyelashes have batted.)

Taken by a mad impulse of self-destruction, I try. For the first time in sixteen years, I try to shoulder through all the barriers I’ve built and see anything in the world in terms of sex. Not as a biological function but as an intimate experience. Starting with me is too hard, so I start with Adam. It’s probably not my best decision, but I try to imagine what he’d look like naked. My imagination balks, though. That’s too hard, too.

I sigh and give up. You try hard enough to neuter yourself, and eventually you get what you ask for. I am sexless, a eunuch with some cumbersome equipment dead between my legs. When it does stir, I kill it quickly, a thought of Isaac and a quick release, followed by a healthy dosage of deep and piercing shame. I am nothing if not self-aware. I have damned myself.

Adam smiles at me, oblivious to my efforts to imagine him naked. “What are you thinking?” he asks.

I flash a tight smile back at him, trying to stop trying to imagine Adam kissing another man. The other man is faceless, and I can’t quite envision their lips touching. I can’t even picture myself kissing Marissa, and we did that no so long ago. So I change the subject. “I’m thinking that as long as you promise to offer me a drink, I’ll be happy to join you.”

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	11. Adam

Jade Puget is in our crappy apartment, looking at our crappy things, judging our crappy lifestyle. He slips out of his jacket, muscles flowing like fluid across his back. I shouldn’t be looking. He doesn’t know what to do with it, so he drapes it across the back of a crappy kitchen chair, and I’m struck by the grace of the motion. That kitchen chair has never looked graceful before in its life, assuming of course that chairs have lives. If ours do, they are surely pathetic ones.

“So about that drink,” he prompts me after a quick glance around the apartment. Paranoia insists he’s judging, but common sense tells me he’s probably just looking for Hunter. It’s going to be an awkward introduction, and just thinking about it makes me want to share the drink. I wince a little at the phrasing of that thought—I don’t want to _share_ his drink, I mean, of course I want my own, I only meant that we’d be drinking together. Why am I so defensive today? No one knows.

The only alcohol we have in the apartment is a dusty bottle of Jamison’s. It’s two-thirds full. I found out after I bought it that Hunter doesn’t drink much, and I’m not up to drinking alone, and two years later I’m holding the bottle of well-intended but neglected whiskey and I don’t know how to serve it.

“We don’t drink a lot,” I say apologetically to Jade, who looks as mortified as I feel about the foul state of our apartment. It’s not overly dirty, but I doubt it’s had a proper cleaning since I started at Mercer Pacific, and the whole place is rundown. Trying to imagine it from his million-dollar eyes, I half expect to see roaches and demolition crews congregating in the poorly-lit corners. It looks like a cheap motel. I’m tempted to check for lipsticked beer bottles behind my own headboard. I am a fool to have invited Jade Puget here, that’s clear to me now. He’s judging me, and why shouldn’t he? I’ll probably be fired by tomorrow. Why would he associate his company with the likes of me?

Jade gives me a painful smile. We have both left our ease and charm at the office. “Give me the bottle and two glasses,” he says. “If this is as old as it looks, you’re going to want a chaser.”

Is drinking aged whiskey with my internationally acclaimed boss a good idea? Well, it’s probably not one of my best. But I’m willing to bet it’ll make the evening a hell of a lot less painful, so I do as I’m told.

I serve bread and salad and stew, which is mostly vegetables but has a few scraps of less-than-choice beef in it. If I’d known Jade Puget was coming for dinner, I would have gone shopping. I would have done a lot of things, like maybe not invite him.

While the stew simmers, Jade and I share a few drinks. At the very least, the fiery whiskey seems to loosen our tongues.

Because the overhead bulb in the kitchen is burnt out, I light some leftover candles and our dinner becomes more romantic than a sober Adam would be comfortable with. Of course, Jade is straight and married, my senior and boss and a father, and terrifyingly successful, so it’s not as if the situation is at all romantic. But the candlelight and the drink soften the harshness of his eyes, and his full lips seem to relax from the professional line he presses them into, and I am suddenly drunk and woozy maybe not from the drink and struck by how goddamn handsome he is.

To keep myself from being self-conscious about that, I have another drink.

Jade compliments my cooking despite the dismal meal and our small talk comes easier. For a while we talk about the Dorsinger account, and I’m too drunk to be embarrassed about what I’m wearing, and he asks me about college, and things are good. But then he asks about Hunter.

“Isn’t your partner going to be concerned about this?” he asks. His voice has rediscovered the hard edge that seems to accompany the subject of Hunter, which I deeply wish we’d stop coming to. He gestures a little sloppily. Still, it must be said, Jade holds his liquor well. We’ve finished the bottle, and he seems not to notice the buzzing heat and light of the room, nor the strange smearing blur of his every movement. I am glad to be sitting down. I’m not sure that I have any other option.

“The candle, you mean?” I ask intelligently, and notice a few extra Ss on the word. “Isn’t a wedding ring immunity to those kind of insinuations? Hunt trusts me. He won’t be mad.”

In truth, I am not one hundred percent sure about this. It is not improbably that our last fight has left our relationship a little shaky and Hunter will feel threatened by the presence of the king of capitalism. Especially when he’s so utterly sexy.

God, I wish I hadn’t thought that.

“You should really be drinking water,” Jade tells me, letting his head flop limp over the back of his chair. The ceiling is rife with water stains, I notice, letting my head do the same. “You will have a hell of a headache in the morning.”

For some reason I find that funny, or maybe it’s the absurdity of it all that gets to me, Jade Puget staring at my water stains and warning me of a hangover and the dripping candles and the meager stew and the running joke of my existence, and I start laughing. Jade’s answering laugh bubbles in his throat, spilling almost tentatively out to meet mine. I’ve never heard him do that before. In a matter of seconds I am laughing _too_ hard, and the kitchen chair that has always wobbled so faithfully betrays me. I hit the kitchen floor with a loud thump and the world spins. Still I laugh, sprawling flat on my back, and Jade’s face is red as he chokes on laughter. Helpless, he rests his forehead on the table and we howl, gasping for air and unable to speak, neither really sure what exact hilarity has ensued.

This is the moment Hunter chooses to make his entrance.

“Sorry I’m late, I—” Hunt sings out, and then stops dead. Our laughter dies abruptly, and I struggle into a sitting position.

“I got caught up at work,” Hunter finishes faintly, eyes flicking from me, on the floor and red in the face from laughter, to Jade, who is sitting almost primly, his relaxed sprawl of only moments earlier not merely forgotten but erased.

“Babe, this is my boss, Jade Puget. Jade, this is—”

Jade stands fluidly, discrediting my graceless introduction and current state. He offers Hunt one of his big, smooth hands. Hunter has an awful handshake. “You must be Hunter,” he says, polite but cold, his formal voice. It’s not until I hear it that I realize how drastically his voice had changed, how far he’d let his professional guard slip. “Adam’s mentioned you.”

Hunter wraps his free arm around the brown paper bag he’s holding, hugging it to his chest almost protectively, as if Jade is some kind of menace to overripe fruit and ruined vegetables. The grocery scourge, we call him around the office. Hunt doesn’t take the hand that’s offered. Jade takes this in stride, but I’m embarrassed, almost angry. It is probably exaggerated by alcohol, but I’m infuriated that he can’t extend even a little courtesy to my friend.

Friend? I think on that for a moment. Does dinner and drinks, a shared cab and a rambling conversation, and a laughing fit constitute as a friendship? Because while I’m sure it’s overstepped the constraints of a professional relationship, I’m not sure what it’s rushed headlong into.

Of course it’s not a friendship. Jade Puget is my boss. He has zero interest in being friends with the likes of me— _especially_ after this incident.

Thinking that, I’m a little disappointed. I don’t really have any friends. I mean, there were some guys at Best Buy, and they invited me to play poker with them after hours, but that’s not something I could afford. And I have Hunter. But I left all my friends in Portland, when they, like my family, shunned me for choosing Hunter, and I’ll admit that I get lonely.

I decide to make David, slimy little bastard that he is, my friend. And Ellen. And even Susan. And maybe when we move somewhere nicer, I’ll have my own poker night. I can invite the guys from Best Buy and everything. Won’t Jade wish he was my friend then!

Okay, I’m more than a little drunk. I’ll admit that too.  
Hunter is still standing in the doorway, and I want to strangle him as much as kiss him. He’s so stubborn and hopeless and rude, so idealistic, so horribly naïve. And maybe he can’t forgive that I’m not anymore.

I picked him. I picked him over everything. My home, my family, my dreams. My pride. My passion. And I think it’s past time _I_ got picked, over his ideals, over his rules, over him. So I’m picking me. Jade and Mercer Pacific and the meeting with Mr. Dorsinger in the office with my name on the door, I’m picking all of that for _me_ , Hunter be damned. I might be drunk, but this makes sense. I know this. It’s right.

If he could just see the view, I think to myself, he’d understand. I want this to be a part of me, and I want him to embrace it—but I don’t _need_ him to. For the first time I realize I don’t _need_ Hunt to be okay with it, don’t need him to come around, don’t need him to squeeze my hand and say it’s okay. He’s a lost little boy hugging his groceries, and I am doing this for me.

“Adam, can I talk to you privately for a sec?” Hunter practically squeaks. Are you drunk, he’s going to ask me. Have you been drinking. You know how I feel about drinking.

I am really not in the mood.

Jade holds up a lovely hand and folds his coat over his arm. “It’s past time I headed home myself,” he says humbly. “I’m sure my wife is at least marginally concerned.”

Hunter clears the doorway and starts slamming cabinets, putting groceries away more huffily than I knew was possible. I stumble to my feet and say, “Please, Jade, you don’t have to—”

Jade’s eyes are glittering in the low light. Half his face catches the light from the hallway and looks tired, drunk, sad; the other half, candlelit, is young and serene and far away. For a moment our eyes lock and I stare into two different Jades, and I must be drunk because it’s like I’m falling in; and then a sharp smile wipes the vulnerability away and the moment ends. I’m either relieved or disappointed or something else, but I sure as hell feel something.

“It’s fine,” he says, voice clipped and cold. He speaks to the secretary with more feeling. “Thank you for the meal.”

I try to think of something, anything I can say to bring him back into my home, my life. There is nothing; he turns away and I watch him go.

Considering how thin our walls are, I’d prefer to give Jade time to reach the stairwell before the yelling starts, but Hunter doesn’t share this desire for tact. He sets in before the door’s shut.

“What the hell was that?” the whole neighborhood hears him demand.

“We shared a cab,” I explain through gritted teeth, trying to speak calmly. My blood roars so loudly through my ears I wonder if he can hear it. It sounds like an oncoming train. “I invited him up for a drink. It was polite.”

“Bullshit!” Hunter says, even louder. There’s no doubt Jade can hear him now. “I get home and find my boyfriend enjoying some bullshit candlelight dinner with another man, and you expect me believe you shared a _cab_?"

There’s no need to pay for cable when your warring gay neighbors enunciate so clearly, is there? Thing of the energy cost we personally are working to minimize. Hunter is such a saint. Never a thought for himself.

“Hunt, please calm down,” I say ineffectually. “It was exactly what it looked like—two adults sharing a drink and a joke.”

Hunter pokes his finger into my chest. “You’re drunk!” he declares deafeningly. “You are off your ass _drunk_!”

Something gets into me. I don’t know what. But I am just not the mood for his shit right now. I slide my hands over his hips and pull him so close are lips are almost touching, our bodies flush and hot and tight.

“That’s the first thing you’ve been right about tonight,” I say softly, dangerously. A black mood claws through my skin. I can’t remember the last time I was angry with Hunter. Aside from when he almost killed us last week, but that wasn’t like this. I don’t think I’ve been angry like this since Colin got Hunter those flowers on Valentine’s day, three or four years ago now. And that wasn’t like this, either.

“Let go of me,” he snaps, squirming in my grip. Somehow coordinated, I pick him up instead. I hold him vertically, straight in the air, hoping he’ll wrap his legs around my waist when he feels how inexplicably hard my cock has gotten, pressed against his groin.

“Put me down!” he protests, hitting my shoulders with his fists. But he can’t pretend his body’s not responding.

“I want you,” I say into his skin. My arms are shaking from the strain, but I lift him higher and close my teeth around his nipple through his shirt.

His protestations grow weak and I win when he locks his legs around my waist. I move my hands to support him, cupping his ass. “But that man…” he whimpers, my hips rubbing against his.

“Is my boss,” I finish, licking his ear and heading towards our bedroom. We’ve had sex maybe twice since I started my internship; a man gets desperate. We can talk later. Now, right now, I want this. I maybe even need this. I’m going to get it. “You are the only thing I want.”

By the time we collapse onto our bed, sheets still rumpled because I haven’t been home to make it, he’s as hard as I am and fumbling with my belt. I’ve got the hem of his shirt when he takes me in his mouth, and my whole world closes down to just his warm wet tongue. I am slick in his mouth and my hips are thrusting; the heat of the whiskey makes me sloppy, and it’s been so long, and his mouth moving on me, tongue teasing the sensitive tip, is more than I can stand. I know he wants me to pull out before I come, as laid out in his rules, but instead I wind my fingers into his hair and hold his head in place and thrust deeper, spilling hot down his throat for the first time. The orgasm leaves me gasping as I force his head still so I can ride it out; when I try to guide his mouth up to mine for a kiss, for sweetness to make up for breaking a rule, his palm stings into the side of my face. He’s hit me. My eyes water from the blow.

“You bastard!” As soon as he’s forced down the last of me, he’s back to yelling, but I’m too drunk and sated to care. His handprint is burning red and I like it; it makes me want him all the more. The anger in me now is a wicked thing, bent on selfish pleasure, something I’ve never indulged in with Hunt before. “Why would you do that? You _know_ how I feel about that!”

I wonder if he knows how _I_ feel, about that or anything else. It seems like my feelings have never been the ones that have needed respecting, like my opinions have never warranted worth. Cum glistens at the corner of his swollen wet lips, and I flick my tongue out to get it, lunging for him. Hunter scrabbles across the bed, fighting to get away from me. I resist the urge to laugh.

“It’s like I don’t even _know_ you!” he yells.

My words are cruel, flying hard off a languorous tongue. I know they hurt. I want them to.

“Why are _you_ so upset? It’s all fucking natural.”

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	12. Emmanuel

It is official. I will never convince a girl to kiss me, ever. I’m a cripple and I’m going to die alone.

Mom showed up at the hospital like two hundred years after the doctor was done with me. If Jean hadn’t posed as my guardian and we’d had to wait for Mom before they could start, my arm probably would have had to be amputated.

When Mom got there, Scott and Jean were sitting next to my bed, like they were my damn parents or something. The nurse said it was okay to take off the heart monitor like hours earlier, but I knew it would freak Mom out, so I told her to leave it on. I also had an IV to drip in painkillers, but my arm still hurt real bad, so Jean let me squeeze his hand when it was hurting. Scott was so worried his face was white, and some of my blood even got on him, so once we found out I probably wouldn’t die of anything but embarrassment he promised not to tell anyone about the hand-holding.

I was almost _asleep_ by the time Mom showed her face in the ER, and she had some guy with her who kind of looked like an underwear model and everything. He looked really awkward and I wanted to say, “You think _you’re_ uncomfortable? Try having a compound fracture,” or something to make Scott laugh, but my arm started hurting so much I could barely see, and I figured if I talked I’d probably cry or something. Jokes are usually a lot less funny when you puke in the middle of them, depending on who you’re telling them to, so I didn’t say anything.

Mom took one look at my cast, which is neon blue, and turned white. “What happened to him?” she asked Jean. She sounded scary. I thought for sure Jean would pretend not to understand English since he was the one in charge of me when it happened, which makes it almost like his fault, but he just said that my arm broke in three places. He left out the part about the shiny grey bone poking out in a wash of all the blood that turned the dirt at the motocross course into red mud and made the backseat of the Mercedes slick when Jean raced us to the hospital. I fainted, but Scott told me later he sat in back and sort of cradled me to keep me from sliding around and making it worse, which sounds like something I’d do. A secret about Scott is that blood makes him like really queasy, so it was really nice of him to do that, and I’m really lucky he didn’t puke on me, because that wouldn’t have helped.

Mom got me discharged from the hospital even though I didn’t want to leave the IV drip. The doctors even wanted me to stay the night, but I’m kind of relieved I didn’t have to do that. Hospitals are sort of creepy.

Jean drove me home because Mom came in that guy’s car. Mom called him about a million times, but Dad never showed up. I was mad about that until I remembered talking on the phone with him. Did he not show up because he’s mad at me, or is he still stuck in the parking lot with a car that won’t start? I can’t figure out why he loves his car so much, when it won’t even turn on. Mr. Pearson’s Fiat always starts. One time he even let me help him change the spark plugs.

I’m in my own bed now. Isabel comes in with tears in her eyes and everything. “Mi alma,” she says wetly, even though she hasn’t been to Portugal (where she was born) in a hundred years. Sometimes she does that, uses Portuguese when she says nice things. Girls are so weird.

“I speak French,” I tell her for the millionth time, and I sound a little faint. I wonder why my mom didn’t cry like Isabel, who graduated at the top of her chef school in Spain and loves food more than people.

Isabel dabs at her wet hazel eyes with a tissue. Isabel is kind of pretty, even if she’s like twenty-five or –nine or something. She has nut-colored hair, burnt brown, and sparkling eyes. Her cheeks are pink and she’s not really fat, but she’s not exactly thin either. I mean she’s a cook. But sometimes when she’s baking she’ll have flour smudged on her face and she’ll laugh real loud and I just want to kiss her smiling mouth. Even if she is curvier than my mom. It makes her look soft and good, a little bit like ripe fruit does.

“Are you all right, my little one?” Isabel asks. I’m not _that_ little.

Mom didn’t ask that. She asked Jean what was wrong with me and started yelling at doctors. She didn’t even say hi to me.

Mostly I’m just glad Jean was there.

Thinking about kissing Isabel, who is a million years older than me anyway, makes me feel a little weird, unless that’s just the pills the nurse gave me before we left the ER.

“The bike fell right on me,” I tell Isabel, kind of bragging. I’m getting really drowsy. “Mom won’t ever let me ride it again.”

“Mrs. sent it for scrap,” Isabel tells me, squeezing my good arm to help ease the bad news. “Can I sign your cast?”

I nod, but the movement makes me want to puke. Isabel grabs a marker off my desk and scribbles something on the plaster block that is my arm.

I remember my dad and ask Isabel if he’s home yet.

Her accent is still thick from when she was crying. “No, not yet. Do you want me to bring your dinner?”

But for some reason, probably the drugs, I’ve burst into tears.

 

 

I guess I am sleeping. It’s hard to tell. I wake up with my face wet and I don’t know if I am or have been conscious or otherwise, but there are a few more pills on a saucer next to my bed with some Gatorade. They are strong stuff, which gives me an idea that I don’t know for sure is lucid. I can’t feel a thing, which is cool, but makes picking up the drink hard. I dribble purple on my pajamas. I only take one of the pills. The other two I slip clumsily into the pencil box crammed into the drawer of my nightstand. They will be useful later, like if I ever have to tranquilize an elephant. A half-capsule would probably do the job. I’m pretty sure you’re only supposed to take two at a time, which means Mom is the one who left the pills for me. I guess it’s nice she cares, but I wonder if she’s trying to kill me or just teach me substance abuse. It’s always hard to tell if it’s attempted murder or neglect, in our house at least.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping-or-not, but I can’t even feel it when I hit my leg with my cast on purpose, so I probably don’t need the full dose, especially not the bonus pill from Mom. Maybe Scott will want my extra pills, or know someone who will. Maybe I’ll be less of a faggot nobody if I start selling drugs. You never know.

 

 

The next time I’m maybe-awake my dad is trying to sneak out of my room. He must be drunk or something, because I’m taking coma pills and he wakes me up, if this is being awake. It’s hard to tell.

“Dad?” I ask. My voice is thin like a ribbon. He’s left the whole bottle on my nightstand with a blue Gatorade, which is great. It wasn’t long ago my whole body was soaked and shiny and sticky with arm-blood and wet dirt, and now I’m supposed to keep track of my own meds? I am fifteen years old and might not even be awake, and this is ridiculous. I have no idea if and when I had my last dose. I guess I’ll just wait until I start to feel things again. It would serve them right if I took too many and we had to go right back to the hospital to get my stomach pumped. Maybe I’d even get my own social worker then.

“Yes, son?” Dad says, pausing in the doorway. He’s calling me son, which is not my name or something he calls me, so he was definitely drinking. Sometimes I think he likes to pretend I’m not his. The way him and Mom fight all the time, maybe I’m not. Laughter that feels like crying bubbles up in my throat. The pills are making me weird. Dad must think laughing hurts, because he walks back over and hands me the Gatorade and a pill. Since he never does it, he must not know any better.

“I think I just took one,” I say, and try to put the pill back on the table. It falls on the floor, so Dad picks it up and swallows it without any Gatorade or anything. I’m a little impressed and a little concerned. That seems more like one of Mom’s tricks, but she always uses fitness water. Anyway he’ll probably be dead by morning, if he’s had as much to drink as he smells like. You don’t fuck around with elephant sedatives, even I can tell you that much, and I’m the cripple of the situation.

“Do you… need anything?” Dad asks awkwardly. I don’t hate him too much right now. I feel a little fuzzy and hollow inside, probably from pills or shock. My bone sticking out of my arm was pretty dramatic. I would probably even be scarred for life, if my brain wasn’t already entirely made up of emotional scar tissue.

I remember what a loser I am. I fell off at the very first jump on the track. Apparently it’s a lot different when you’re off-roading in rich people’s million dollar lawns. It seemed easy then. Maybe I am a total faggot like everyone says. I mean, only six-year-olds fall off their bikes.

“Are you okay?” Dad asks, which I’m not. My face is all knotted up, so even he can tell that there is some human emotion happening. When I kind of start crying again, he sits down on the very edge of the bed like he’s afraid to touch me, like maybe being a crippled loser is contagious. He puts his hand on mine for a second, which I can’t feel. That kind of makes me cry harder.

“What’s wrong, Emmie?” he asks. No one’s called me Emmie since Mom got rid of Genny. I don’t think Dad’s said it since I was like four. It kind of makes me like him a little bit again.

“I’m sorry I’m such a defective,” I say, sort of sobbing. That is I guess why I’m crying a little. I mean, my dad hates me even more than I hate him, and Mom is like an alien or something who doesn’t feel love. Maybe they sucked out her heart when she got the secret liposuction I’m not supposed to know about. It’s like classified by the CIA or something, even though Dad probably knows anyway. Maybe I should have saved her the trouble of pretending like the cellulite on her ass disappeared from all those protein shakes by telling her Dad doesn’t care. She could get her hands sucked off and Dad wouldn’t care.

They don’t love each other very much. I mean, I’m not a professional, but that’s what I think.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m like morally obligated to tell him that Mom has half a billion boyfriends, but then I remember the he already knows, because he knows everything but the important stuff, like that you’re supposed to love your son. I guess they don’t teach spies that in James Bond school.

Dad kind of smiles, which looks like it hurts. “A broken arm doesn’t make you defective,” he says like he thinks I’m talking about my arm, but he knows what I mean, because he knows everything. I’m sort of defective because Jess Appleby calls me Manny the Man-Lover and I fell off the bike and I can’t play football and I’m good at the piano and I kind of sometimes want to kiss Isabel and I also have secret comic books instead of porn magazines and he can’t, or won’t, or whatever, love me.

I kind of open my mouth to tell him what I meant, but he does a little pat on my head and I decide it’s better if I just don’t say it out loud, because he doesn’t want me to say it.

“Goodnight, Dad,” I say instead, which is a lame thing to say, like ‘go away’ but nicer, but I can’t think of anything else.

Then I wish I hadn’t said it at all because he says “Oh” like he had something to say, and he just says, “Goodnight, Emmanuel,” instead.

And then I’m asleep again. At least, I think it’s sleep. Maybe not. It could be something else entirely.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	13. Adam

“I understand your concern, Mr. Dorsinger,” I tell my portly client. I took Jade’s advice. I’m in crisp black suit pants, five hundred dollar leather shoes, and a light pink shirt pushed up past my elbows. Three thousand dollars at Hugo Boss, and another two thousand at Armani, has filled my tiny closet with elegant, tasteful, and extremely expensive clothing. I practiced restraint and only got the basics. I could easily have spent three times as much. I have never been so well-dressed in my life; it feels good. I want more. My only extravagant purchase was a charcoal wool pea coat and a cashmere scarf, which are almost unnecessary in California but really beautiful things to own, especially with the company picking up the tab. Jade gave me my personal card a week ago. With that, I ordered a new couch and a dining table with matching chairs. Talk about luxury. I had everything shipping to the new apartment. I’m taking Hunt there tonight. He hasn’t made a peep about the new clothes, but there hasn’t been much peeping about anything lately. I get the feeling that when he sees the size of the new apartment he’ll go berserk.

Dorsinger is a fat, sweaty man in royal purple and pinstriped grey. He’s the distinguished CEO of a well-known brand of clothing. I had my first meeting with him a week or so ago, and now we’re meeting again so Davey and I can present the new campaign we’ve come up with.

Dorsinger’s jowls dance when he frowns. They’ve been doing the fucking tango for most of our pitch, which is bullshit. It’s a good ad. Dave and I make a damn good team.

“I want to work with Aaron,” Dorsinger insists. That refrain of his is getting pretty old. Aaron Teasdale has been in charge of his account up until now, when Aaron finally had enough of the finicky man. At forty-three, Aaron has a full head of silver hair, and he claims Dorsinger is solely responsible for his rapid onset of aging. Dorsinger is seriously balking at the prospect of change; he’s being even more difficult now than he was at our initial meeting. It’s not good news. I assured Jade it would be a smooth transition, that I was capable of fully meeting the client’s needs. I do not intend to be liar, but Dorsinger’s not eager to make an honest man out of me.

“I assure you I am every bit as qualified as Teasdale, Mr. Dorsinger,” I try to placate him. “Davey and I are confident that this pitch will revolutionize your sales.”

The truth is, Dorsinger’s clothing is poorly tailored from cheap materials. You could find better fabric in a bargain bin, and lately that’s where his labels have been ending up. The styles are eye-catching but overpriced, and what they lack in quality cannot be made up with daring hemlines and slashed décolletages, no matter how compelling they might be. The inflated prices and the decline in product quality seem to have coincided, and the brand’s been rendered almost unsellable. It is not easy product to move. We have stayed up late for two weeks now, working nonstop to change that. If you ask me, we’ve come up with a damn good approach.

What Davey and I have devised is a new take on the brand’s identity. Instead of refined class, we’re pushing a more dynamic and eye-catching glamour, one part grunge, one part brothel, one part graceful grit. It’s a sexy, dangerous campaign; beautiful women with dark eyes and shining hair, reflected in gasoline puddles, alleyways and high heels, short skirts and torn stockings and red, red lips. The women are smoky and untouchable, hair either dark and tangled or bleached so platinum it hurts; the tags Davey and I finally agreed on read “Why be discreet?” and “You get what you pay for”.

It’s risqué, that’s true. Dorsinger hates it. But Davey thinks the approach is perfect, and he’s been in the business longer than I have, so I’m inclined to agree. At first working together seemed like a punishment, but in the end, we’ve made a good team. The turning point of our partnership was when I said, “Is that cigarette still on the table?” after a few especially grueling hours of no headway, as it neared two a.m. and we still hadn’t decided a thing. After that, he asked me to call him Davey; and in between choking and hacking and coughing, I joked that I really took the sex out of cigarettes. Davey said maybe we should take that displaced sex and put it in our ad strategy, and that was that. Our breakthrough was an offhand quip, for all intents and accident. Once he’d pitched the idea to me, I was swept away by it. You can get away with some really great visuals when you go for a more grunge appeal. I had so much fun on the ad, I forgot about the client in a big way. Dorsinger’s reminding me now, and it’s painful.

Our ad is either brilliance, or suicide.

Davey nudges me with his elbow. “We’re so confident our ad will work for you,” he says in that easy, self-assured, arrogant way of his, “we’ll let you run one of the commercials, free of charge, before we even discuss billing for the package.”

The package includes several print ads, two billboards, four commercials, and what will probably be several hundred exposures from the photo shoot we’re planning. Davey’s already booked a make-up artist and talked to a photographer from the seventh floor. It’s the first serious package I’ve done for Mercer Pacific, and I feel pretty good about it. It’s a massive overhaul of Teasdale’s approach, which was sterile, conservative, boring. I’m not sure about the offer Davey’s making, though. It sounds like a good way to seriously piss Jade off. Besides, how will we pay for it all without Dorsinger’s checkbook? It’s not something I can bring up in front of the client, though. He’ll go apoplectic if he thinks we’ve made an offer we can’t back.

Dorsinger clasps his oily hands on the conference table. “I don’t like it,” he says, enunciating clearly, in case we really are as incompetent as he seems to think. “I want it redone, and I want Aaron to do it. He’s never disappointed me like this. I expect not to be billed for whatever time you’ve spent throwing together this piece of crap.”

Davey’s had enough. He is usually the picture of professional composition, but I guess he hasn’t had enough nicotine today, because he just about snaps. “Aaron is too swamped to take on your account right now,” he enunciates right back. For a moment the situation teeters between stalemate and bitchfight; then Dorsinger’s considerable weight tips the scales. He throws up his pink flabby hands.

“Fine!” he says, exasperated. “If I must have you two, I will. But you are _going_ to rethink your plans for my company, or I am going to take my business elsewhere.”

The threat frightens me. Davey, who I sometimes still call David in my head, partly by accident and partly because I don’t trust him, is nonplussed.

“Mr. Dorsinger, sir,” he says, simpering, “you asked for brand revival. That is what we’ve given you, and that is _all_ we’re going to give you. I recommend you learn to like it, because it’s not changing.”

Dorsinger doesn’t like that. As a matter of fact, neither do I. I blurt something out, desperately trying to undo Davey’s words, but it’s a mortal blow. My first full-fledged client turns red, grabs his briefcase off the table with a hair-raising leather screech, and storms out of the conference room.

I feel like I’ve just gotten my first F on an exam. My stomach drops out of me completely and I know my hands are shaking. I would rather jump off the Golden Gate Bridge than be me right now, than have this moment really be happening.

“Davey, we just lost millions of dollars over a few whores in poorly made trench coats,” I whisper, shell-shocked, voice quavering. I am temporarily numb, but I know that when the horror sinks in I’ll be screaming.

Davey just gives me his contented cat smile. “God, I wouldn’t want to be you when Mr. Puget hears about this,” he says, sickly-sweet as a PMSing cheerleader.

“ _Me_?” I am horrified now. This is a nightmare. This is a bad, bad dream. “It was your—I mean, you’re the one— _we_ did this—”

Davey’s smile grows wider. “I seem to recall our boss putting _you_ in charge of the account, even though with more experience and exemplary qualifications I was clearly the better choice. I told him that, too. But do you know what he said? He said he _trusted_ you.” Davey’s voice drops mockingly, sending chills down my spine. “Oh, I hope he’s not disappointed in you! I’d hate for him to rethink your promotion… Do you think he’ll fire you over this? _Intern_?”

I open my mouth to stammer out a half-sentence about the contract, but the words aren’t there. Besides, it doesn’t bind Mercer Pacific to a year of employment; it just claims legal rights to every idea I turn out for the next two weeks and eleven months.

Davey strides out of the conference room like he’s walking on air. The bastard set me up. He had to know our edgy approach would upset Dorsinger’s conservative ideals, and then pushed it so aggressively to drive the client out of the office entirely. Instead of just stalling my progress in the drawing room entirely, like I was afraid of, he led me directly to the slaughter. And he did it all for something as puerile as revenge; did it because I was Jade’s golden boy and he wasn’t; did it because I got the job and he stayed the assistant; did it because Jade used the word ‘trusted’ at the wrong moment. For that, he’s sabotaged not only my career, but the company’s standing with Dorsinger.

He is a ruthless son of a bitch.

I should be screaming. Instead I’m sick with guilt and betrayal. I thought I was careful not to trust the bastard. But if I’d been careful, he wouldn’t have ended up with my entire career baaing in his slimy little hands.

I trudge towards my office in the daze, seeing nothing, feeling less.

“What happened in there?” Susan whispers as I float past her desk. “I’ve never seen Mr. Dorsinger look so pissed! He looked like a pig in a suit. He went straight to Mr. Puget’s office, right in the middle of a conference call, just so he could make sure to spread his anger. I told him not to go in there, that Mr. Puget was busy, but he just shouldered his way in there like a linebacker. I think he would have torn it off the hinges if it was locked…” She cups her hand around the mouthpiece on her headset and leans forward, eager for gossip. A loose, golden curl escapes from the mother-of-pearl clasp that sits at the back of her head.

I swallow too hard. I’m sweating. I feel faint. I consider having a heart attack and dropping dead on the spot, but all those damn vegetables we’ve been getting for free really have done wonders for my cholesterol, and I’m not successful in the attempt. Since the incident at my place, I kind of have the feeling Jade’s avoiding me. Truth be told, I’m happy to avoid him right back. There’s only so much awkward a professional relationship can handle before it shatters like cheap crystal. I’m not eager to push my luck—that it, I _wasn’t_ , and then Davey threw me and my luck off a fucking cliff. Now I’m a tiny crippled dot far below on the canyon floor, and I’ll be lucky if Jade’s _spit_ hits me, let alone his good favor.

“I think he’s going to fire me,” I tell Susan faintly. Trying to prompt a heart irregularity has made me dizzy, unless that’s still shock. I haven’t got so much as a palpitation, though if my heartbeat keeps up its current rate I’ll probably use up my allotted amount before dinner. I don’t think you get rollover minutes from your past life.

Susan’s eyes widen. “I thought for sure he hired you for keeps!” she whispers, but before she can move on to the fourth degree, the third having been exhausted, the intercom buzzes. I think I’m saved until Susan mouths, “It’s him.”

Maybe I should phone in a bomb threat. You know, risk my job to avoid losing it. How rough could the jail time be? I mean, I’m already gay, so the showers won’t be _that_ out of the ordinary. It’s probably from the panic, but I almost feel like laughing at that. I imagine Hunt’s look of revulsion, if I ever said anything like that out loud.

“Yes, Mr. Puget. I understand,” Susan’s saying, flashing me an apologetic look. “He wants to see you in his office right away. If I see you, I’m supposed to let you know,” she whispers.

I swallow again. The lump in my throat protests so forcibly I almost choke. What a relief that would be, choking to death less than fifty feet from Armageddon, formerly known as Jade’s office. Since he never got the chance to fire me, the company would be obligated to have a memorial service, which I guess they could put on my tab. You know, the one I run my enormously costly mistakes on.

“How upset did he sound?” I ask, pretending for Susan’s benefit that thoughts of spontaneous death aren’t playing popcorn in my brain.

“Not upset at all,” Susan tells me. “Frighteningly calm.” I’ve worked here long enough to know what bad news _that_ is. I swore up and down I could handle this project, that I understood the client’s history and objective. And Jade believed me. _Trusted_ me.

I am the perfect fool.

“So, have I seen you?” she asks. Even from this state of relative frenzy, utter failure ringing in my ears, I appreciate the gesture. But I don’t take the out that’s offered, as much as every instinct I have left is screaming _abandon ship_.

“Yes,” I say, mouth dry. I try to sound confident and make my last words profound. “You can tell him I’m on my way.”

Well, it’s not exactly an epitaph, but at least I got words out. Impressive when your tongue is made of sand. Fearlessly, I turn and walk towards the gallows.

Not quite fearlessly. But I won’t show it. I try to imagine that I’m made of ice. I’m getting better at wiping the emotion off my face. My hands don’t even shake as I knock lightly on Jade’s door.

“Come in,” he calls coolly. There is winter in his voice, several degrees below zero, which lets me know how irascible he is. We could very well be dealing with fury here, not that you’d know it from the sound of his voice. For god’s sake, he was interrupted on a conference call, which he is very particular about taking undisturbed, by Dorsinger charging like a rhino. I swore I was capable until we were both blue in the face, and now I have ruined everything. I wish I could blame Davey but I know it’s my fault. I am entirely responsible for this outcome, because I was entirely responsible for the situation. I _chose_ to be. Now the consequences are mine, too.

I turn the knob and stride purposefully across Jade’s gorgeous carpet. Unbidden, my mind wanders to the new apartment. The carpet isn’t as nice as this—not much is—but it’s close. The kitchen and bedrooms—yes, there are two of them—have hard wood. There is nothing living under the linoleum. There is no beast waking in between the shower tiles. It isn’t quite Mercer Pacific, but there is no denying it’s a lovely place, nicer than I’d ever imagined, before I got this job. Nicer than I knew would ever exist for Adam Carson. No matter how big I dreamed, I never dared believe it before now. I daresay even my parents would be proud if they could see me now, preferred gender of mate be damned. I don’t consider for a second that once Jade fires me I will have no way of paying for it. I just fix my thoughts on the place where none of the filth and squalor can touch me. This time, I _am_ the city of ivory, and I choose what I let in. I am impregnable. I am strong. It would take the hand of God to reach me in here.

This must be what Jade Puget feels like.

I decide right then never to be vulnerable again. I wrap myself in solid stone. It’s cold to the touch, chill reaching through to wrap brittle fingers around my bones like I’ll never be warm again, but I think to myself that it’s worth it. If no one ever touches me again, how can they hurt me? It seems like a fair trade.

I flash the kind of tight smile that only stone-wrought Armani can support, and wait for the worst.

Jade glances at me over the top of a paper, frowning. “Adam, please sit,” he says coldly. I don’t even feel it; my own chill is stronger, sterile and neat and entirely in my control. His guarded eyes don’t betray a thing, but I know somewhere behind that eerie wolf amber he’s glad I’m not trying to hide, not sneaking out the back door with my tail between my legs. I hope he thinks a little more of me for that; I hope somewhere in him there’s respect that I’ve come to bear the consequences, even if that means a guillotine. Let no man say that Adam Carson flinched before the axe.

Now that, _that_ is a pretty good epitaph. I wish I’d thought of it earlier, when I could still get Susan to write it down.

Jade lays down his paper and folds his hands on his modest desk. The gesture is so like Dorsinger’s that I feel a wave of failure coming on all over again; but my walls hold, and the wave crashes in vain. The drawbridge is drawn, the portcullis steel; for a moment at least, I am safe, and the storm can’t reach me.

“Tell me,” says Jade, “where does this company generate income?”

The question throws me off, but I am masonry. Rock does not falter. It stands stoic, or it collapses. I won’t stumble; I will either stand, or fall.

“Our clients,” I tell him, playing into his lecture without hesitation.

Jade nods as if he’s considering my answer. He feigns confusion. “Then tell me, how has your desire for artistic expression taken precedence over the satisfaction of a client? Do you think your ideas are worth _anything_ if there’s no one interested in buying them?” Jade pauses, but not long enough for me to answer. “Adam, _you are a commodity_. I have bought you but I can just as easily sell you, do you understand? If you are of no gain to the company, there is no room for you here. Dorsinger showed me your mock-up. It’s a decent model, I’ll give you that much. I think it might even pay off for Dorsinger’s company, which is borderline unmarketable at this point. I’ll be honest, I’ve considered dropping his account a few times, but the man is a cash cow. The more his same old approach fails him, the more he pays us to duplicate it.”

“Albert Ellis’ definition of insanity,” I mutter, but Jade is still talking.

“ _None of that matters_. None of that is the point of what we do here. Good advertising is not the point. I don’t care if you turn out pure drivel, utter shit, McDonald’s quality radio jingles, so long as it makes the client happy.

“I talked Dorsinger down, but you should know he was ready to take his money and never come back here again. He’s demanding Teasdale, and if this is how you treat important clients he damn well should be, but Aaron has enough on his fucking plate right now. Dorsinger is a little fish compared to a lot of what we see on this floor. From what I’ve seen, you’re not capable of Mercer Pacific-caliber service. Maybe I promoted you too soon. That’s what I get for listening to Isaac, though—irrefutably fucked.

“We’re coming up on our busiest season, so I’m not going to fire you; I’m not even going to demote you, even though I should. Instead, I expect you to do anything you can to help Aaron, since you’re the one who put him in this undesirable situation. He’s got a family, kids, and for some reason seems to like being around them, and I see no reason why he should stay extra hours because of you. Whatever he asks you to do, you are going to, whether it’s refilling his coffee, modeling the new Calvin Kleins, or spending hours in the stacks on the brand research I’m sure you’ll be happy to do.”

“You want me to be his assistant?” The second Jade stops talking, it just flies out of my mouth, incredulous and thick with disbelief.

Jade very deliberately arches one eyebrow. “Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Carson? I think it’s the least you can do. The man’s got enough deadlines without Dorsinger breathing down his neck, and the holidays are almost upon us. You have no idea how busy it’s about to get around here, and someone needs to help him out when the shit hits the fan. Who better than the one who’s responsible for the shit in the first place?”

My walls are crumbling. I am pale and pink and naked, shivering and squirming in the cold, cold air Jade’s spitting at me. He will cut me to the bone, even though I’m spineless, if I don’t regain some control.

I want so badly to tattle on Davey. I want Jade to like me again. I want him to stop thinking of me as a mistake. I feel more like an unplanned pregnancy than a rock.

“I understand, Mr. Puget. I’ll make the necessary corrections in my behavior,” is all I say. I wait to be dismissed, but Jade’s frown deepens. It’s childish, I know, but I’m glad being called ‘Mr. Puget’ bothers him. It’s a bitch when first-name basis is revoked.

“Look, I don’t want you expecting special treatment just because you’re an upjumped intern who had a few drinks with his boss. You are expendable, Adam, and arrogance doesn’t suit you.”

I get to my feet. I am not a short-tempered man, not usually—Jade just has a way of getting to me. “Yes, I’m beginning to see it’s an unbecoming trait,” I throw back at him, unable to keep up my calm exterior any longer. The ivory city crumbles into the moat. “I make one mistake and I’m exiled from the kingdom, is that it? Well, as much as I’d love to sit here and kiss your feet, I don’t think I’m as fucking disposable as you want to think. I think that when you let yourself feel a damn thing, you even enjoy being around me. So go ahead, treat me like an idiot, pretend I’m a huge fucking failure if that’s easier to live with. But if you ever wonder what it feels like to be warm, if you stop being so damn afraid, you let me know. There’s a human being inside you somewhere, _Mr. Puget_ —I’ve seen him, poured him a drink, heard him laugh. If you ever feel like being alive again, you know where I’ll be—modeling Calvins in the stacks, balancing some fucking coffee on my head.”

Mature as the day I enrolled in third grade, I storm out of his office. I’ve really lost it this time. Instead of being even a little bit grateful that he’s let me keep my job, I verbally assault the man. What the hell is wrong with me? Why does Jade always make me so fucking angry? Just being close to him seems to make my blood run hot.

I’d like to clear my head, but I know that’s not happening. I consider going to the soundproofed room and screaming, or marching across the hall and jacking Davey in the smarmy face, or regaining my wits and begging Jade’s forgiveness before he files a restraining order and blacklists me.

Hunter is my only hope. If things were right between us, I know just the sound of his voice would bring me down, soothe the jagged edges, piece my world back into a whole, functioning unit. I’m hoping the gorgeous new apartment will make us right again. Maybe when he sees the tangible result of his moral sacrifice it will be easier to live with. Until then, though, I lock myself in my office, dial his number, and hope for the best.

“This is Hunter,” he answers. I smile to myself. He hasn’t even programmed my work line into his phone. I guess he’s still hoping it won’t stick.

“Hey, baby,” I say, as warmly as I can manage. “Are you excited for your surprise yet?”

Hunter sounds wary. He hasn’t forgiven me yet. I guess I don’t blame him. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately; I’ve gone from model citizen, promising employee, and perfect boyfriend to degenerate line-crosser from hell. “Why can’t you just tell me what it is?” he asks for the millionth time. I decide to take that as excitement.

“You’ll see. Just as soon as I get home from work, you’ll see.” The plan tonight is to come clean. I’ll pick him up in the Bentley, charge dinner on my personal card, and blow him away with the new apartment. I’m going to tell him everything. It’s a long shot, but I’m counting on the honesty and our history together to triumph over his suspicion and mistrust. I miss the way things used to be for us, and I have to believe we can get back to that. The only hard part will be keeping him from storming out before the grand finale.

“Why’d you call, Ad?” he asks. He sounds distracted. “I’m in the middle of something.”

I frown a little bit. “I just love you,” I tell him, trying to be the same adorable Adam he met in college, earnest and hard-working and sweet. I still am those things, I think. It’s hard to be sure. “I just had a fight with Jade, and I wanted to hear your voice.”

That must be must be the wrong thing to say, because Hunt’s voice comes back sharp. “Why can’t he clean up his own messes? I’m so sick of hearing about Jade fucking Puget!”

Suddenly there is nothing I want more in life than to fling myself off the goddamn building. I don’t know why I even try with him, sometimes. It’s obvious he’s not interested in meeting me halfway.

“Then we’ll talk about something else, sweetheart. Anything you want.” I have no words for how impressed I am with myself for pulling off that remark. I don’t even sound frustrated. I am a better liar than I thought, which makes me think maybe he was right about this job after all.

“Adam, I told you, I’m busy,” Hunter snaps. I tell myself he doesn’t mean to sound so harsh, but it’s getting harder to stay calm and supportive. I have done nothing but adore and support him. Is five minutes of his time too much to ask?

When I hear a voice in the background, garbled but male, my anger comes back in a rush. I keep my voice calm, but it takes all the self-control I have left. “With who?” I ask, striving for conversational. I don’t think I’m that far off the mark.

Even I think I’m being a suspicious bastard until I hear the guilt in his voice. Then I _do_ start to wonder. “Jesus, Adam, it’s just Colin. We’re planning the wedding. I figure I’d better enjoy it since it’s the only one I’ll get to plan. Ever.”

I have finally had enough. “This is really not the time for that conversation, Hunter. You know how I feel about—”

“Commitment? Your total inability to admit to the world that you love me? Yeah, I know how you fucking feel about that. I know how ashamed you are of me.”

This is one of the many reasons I dislike Colin. Whenever Hunt spends time with him, he gets like this. He sounds like a breast-fed feminist. Matt’s an okay guy, very straightforward, but Colin is a fucking weasel. He’s always trying to convince Hunter I’m some kind of huge cowardly monster. For the longest time I was convinced he wanted Hunter for himself, which caused endless turbulence in our relationship. I’m still not totally sure I believe he’s not interested, even with his pending nuptials, but I’ve at least gotten more reasonable about the situation.

I refuse to let this get any worse. “We’ll talk about this when I get home, okay? I love you,” I say, and hang up the phone before Hunt can say anything Colin-inspired and nasty. I throw my jacket on, sling my bag over my shoulder, and grab the Bentley keys out of my desk drawer. This is bullshit, and we are going to sort it out in person. I thought we could do it on my terms, over a romantic dinner, but if Hunt wants it to be messy that’s his choice. If he wants to talk about our future, we will. Hell, if getting married is what it takes to fix this, to make him happy again, we’ll do that too. But this bullshit has gone on long enough. We are going to be fucking happy again, no matter what it takes.

Most people aren’t so aggressive about happiness. I realize that. But I am at my wit’s end. This job was meant to improve our quality of life, not utterly destroy it. I did this. I’ll fix it.

“Family emergency,” I call to Susan as I bolt out of the office. “See you tomorrow.”

She calls something after me, but I’m jogging down the hall, bag slapping against my leg. I don’t hear.

It feels great to be behind the wheel again. The Bentley handles beautifully. I break nearly every traffic law known to man, but San Francisco’s finest are evidently busy elsewhere. I make it home in under twenty minutes.

I park illegally and race up the stairs, engine still clicking. I feel in control of my life. Adrenalin pours through me and I feel alive. An inexplicable grin bursts across my face. I know what I want, exactly what I want. I want Hunter, the way he was, the way we were. I want to be happy again. I will gladly spend the rest of my life giving my all to make him happy.

I throw open the door and wish I’d brought flowers. “Let’s get married,” I call out. “Let’s spend eternity together. All I want is you.”

I’ve got the whole stupid declaration out of my mouth and into the air before I see them. The man I loved with my all up until a split second ago and Colin are a pale tangle of limbs. I’ve proposed mid-moan and Colin is balls-deep in my would-be fiancé, his ass pale and fleshy and flushed from the pounding.

Hunt’s eyes are wide and full of tears, which is funny, since I’m sure he was begging for it earlier. His lips are red and swollen and his upper body is covered in impressions of Colin’s teeth. He’s been careful not to leave any hickeys, which impresses me. Who knew an affair could be so carefully calculated? I wonder if there’s any passion involved at all, but it’s a detached wondering. Too much secret and not enough sex is my estimate, although from where I’m standing, there’s much too much of the sex already.

I don’t want to know how long they’ve been fucking behind my back. Knowing that they’re fucking in front of my face is enough. I don’t want to hurt Colin, don’t even have the urge to run out and sodomize _his_ fiancé. My head clears and I breathe like it’s for the first time. I have never taken a breath before. I have spent my whole life in a coma until this moment when I am conscious, when I am alive. The only thing I want is to know what the hell I’ve been doing for the last six years of my life, aside from marching down the line towards death.

He has the audacity to say my name, and I’m a little tempted to hit him then. “Adam,” Hunt whimpers, a lost little boy to the end.

Colin hasn’t even pulled out. Me walking in has probably only made him hornier, but in truth it’s a relief not to look at his slimy latex-wrapped dick.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” I finally say. “Go ahead, Colin. Finish it.”

I’d like to say I stood and watched till that final thrust and didn’t feel a goddamn thing but my own icy heartbeat, but that’s a lie.

Instead I turn and walk out, leaving my life and my love and myself behind forever. I’ll be back for my things, the books and the clothes and a handful of CDs I’m not ready to part with, when Colin doesn’t have his cock stuffed inside Hunt. And after that, well, I never have to come back here again. I can forget this fucking place, this excuse of a life, the man I never quite was. I know who I am now, and I’m above this fucking filth.

I get back in the Bentley and peel away from the curb. For the first time in years, I’m moving forward, and it feels good.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	14. Jade

The only thing that saves me from being a complete and total bastard is that I have no actual proof that Davey orchestrated the whole thing to ruin Adam’s standing with me. I mean, I’m reasonably certain, but that’s not exactly concrete evidence, is it? It’d be wrong to punish Adam simply for glimpsing a human moment, for being so genuine and honest that he coaxed me out of my self-orchestrated prison, for being part of a moment we shared and was taken. So instead I’m punishing him for treating a client so poorly, even though it was most likely Davey who did that. The only problem is, if he saw through me once, he might see through me again; might see straight through to the cracked and empty core that imagined, for one warm second, what it would feel like to claim him, to call him mine. _That_ is what I’m punishing him for, but punishment isn’t working. I feel as if I should apologize, which is a terrible idea. That is not safe thinking.

I dial Isaac’s number, which I’d know in my sleep, to pick up where we left off when Dorsinger barged in like an angry rhinoceros. He’s barely answered when I deliver what I believe to be the coup d’état of my entire career.

“I’ve been looking at the numbers, Zac, and we’re sitting on a huge chunk of capital. Our stock has never been higher, our ratings are off the charts, and not investing this money is a waste. It’s not going to turn into anything if we keep it hidden under the mattress. We’re missing opportunities for the firm. I’ve been looking into the market overseas for the last few years, and I’ve got all the research together… It might seem like a big step, but we’re ready for it, and the economic climate will never be better.”

“Better for what?” Isaac asks coyly when I pause for breath. He’s not going to be shocked by my proposal. It’s something we’ve always dreamed of for the company. I just don’t think he ever expected to be able to implement it in our generation. We both thought it would be a movement for the second gen of Mercer Pacific, when we were reduced to bloated board members and stockholders. Turns out I’m not as patient as I used to be.

“For Mercer International,” I deliver with confidence. “We always talked about an office in Tokyo. For god’s sake, I took all those Japanese classes for a reason. We could build a complex in Sydney. In Monaco. In Greece. Isaac, we’ve seen the world—why not conquer it?”

I paint a picture of the earth, and we are gods above it. Zac won’t be able to resist.

“It’s like you’re reading my mind,” Isaac finally says. “I think you’re right. The old wanderlust is setting in again, isn’t it? I knew you’d never be satisfied in a domestic life. Fiscally, we’re right where we should be for this kind of move. Our stock is going to skyrocket; Em can expect a new bike this Christmas, that’s for sure. If this something you truly want to do, we have the resources. Are you sure you’re not too old for this kind of thing?”

I can hear in his voice that there’s more to it than he’s saying. “You’re holding out on me,” I accuse.

Isaac lets out a laugh. “I can’t keep anything from you! Well, call it an early Christmas present, but I’m holding in my hands the deed to a twelve-story office plaza in Kyoto.”

I’m grinning like a madman. Kyoto is probably my favorite city in the world. It’s beautiful and serene, and the bullet train runs right to Tokyo. It’s full of temples, breathtaking architecture, steeped in history—and in the spring, the cherry blossoms are stunning. I always thought to myself I’d take Marissa there someday; maybe now I’ll have the opportunity. Kyoto is… perfect. If I spend enough time there, the company will even pay for a modest apartment. I will never have to come home again.

“Not that I’m complaining, but my birthday’s sooner,” I point out. I wonder how long he’s had the property, waiting for me to ask. Usually Isaac and I are only a few heartbeats apart. If my guess is right, he bought it a month or two ago, when I first started itching for more. I don’t know if it’s ambition or restlessness, but it keeps pushing me further and further from the man my father is, the man I’ll never be. I’m okay with that.

“I’m not getting you more work for your birthday!” Isaac laughs. “God, you’re going to bury yourself alive if you keep pushing yourself so hard. It’s not just the two of us anymore—we have hundreds of employees, Jade. I’m sure you’re not the only competent one. Have you ever thought about relaxing?”

I make a bitter little bark that is almost, but not quite, laughter. “Have you ever been to my home, met my family? Work _is_ relaxing.”

He’s not done yet. “Of course, if we go through with this, we’ll need a reliable liaison to get this thing off the ground, hire trustworthy people, appoint the appropriate positions… What needs to be done is almost endless. Preferably someone who’s been with the company for a long time, someone we trust to make the same decisions we would, someone fluent in the language… I don’t imagine you have anyone in mind…?”

Isaac knows me too well. The grin spreads. The answer is in the question and he’s taunting me. “You wouldn’t buy property in Kyoto for anyone but me.”

Isaac sighs and grow more serious, playtime ending. “Of course it’s for you. You’re my intended—there’s no one I’d rather have closer, but if we do this I’ll need you half a world away. You know my mind inside and out, and I’ve always trusted your good sense better than mine anyway. But before I ship my right hand overseas, you have to do something for me. I want to know what you’re running from.”

I consider saying “You”, but that’s not it, not entirely, not anymore. I’m not sure if I have the words for it, but I try. “I laughed the other night, Zac. For the first time in… years, I think. I let go and laughed, without ever meaning to, and… I’m getting closer. To what I’ve been looking for, I think. To me. And that scares me. I think it’s time I took a break.”

“And to you that means undertaking a colossal amount of pain-in-the-ass, impossible work? You remember what hell we went through to start Mercer Pacific up in the first place, don’t you? Of course you do. You never forget anything, and you did most of the work. The greatest comfort in my life is knowing I’ll never have to do it again, and here you are, volunteering for the front line.” Isaac laughs dryly. “Okay. I can’t say no to you,” he says, which he can and has, the only time it mattered. He owes me this. He promised me the world once, and it’s about time he gave it to me—even if this isn’t the way either of us intended.

I’ve never been so relieved. Kyoto. Away from Marisa, away from Emmanuel, away from Adam. Isaac isn’t the only thing haunting me these days, and I am not too proud of fly halfway around the world to escape those ghosts. Maybe I used to be, but I used to be a lot of things. I have become a desperate man. Desperate men flee.

While I’ve got him honest, I think about asking the question I’ve been trying for years to answer. Each time I satisfy it, though, I change my mind, reject the answer, and start anew. I’m sure I’ve stumbled upon the right one at some point in the last eighteen years, though it’s probably been discarded, but I want to hear it from him before I die, want to hear why he kissed me, and why he never did it again.

But we still have time. We’re not young, but we’re not on the brink of death or anything either. Somehow, the memory is still raw—maybe because I can’t leave it alone, maybe because I stay up at night picking it like a scab and chase it with a drink when feeling gets too strong, too close to being. I don’t have to know right this minute, so I let it be. The question can wait, like it always has. It will lay dormant for years and never complain. If I can’t do the same, well, the question is not at fault. I am.

“Is it me?” Isaac asks quietly, seriously. I’m startled—it’s not Isaac’s kind of question. He’s not very philosophical; his thoughts are rarely metaphysical, and those that are, are not like this.

“That I’m running from?” I ask softly, unable to keep a quality akin to laughter out of my tone. I lie without pausing. “Of course not, Zac. I’ve never run from you; what reason could I have for starting now? Taking our company international is not the ideal way to get away from the man I work for. Your whole life is this firm.”

I’m striving for light-hearted and Isaac isn’t having it, which is unheard of. “Sounds more like you than me,” he mutters. “You’ve run from me,” he adds, quietly enough that I’d pretend I haven’t heard if only that was as effective on the phone as it was in person. I have _never_ run from Isaac, even when, especially when, I should have. I was his goddamn best man, even after that one kiss ended every lie I’d told myself about love. I think about telling him I loved my young wife, but only married her because I didn’t know what else to do, how else to put myself back together in the wake of that kiss. Marissa and Annette, who never really got along, thought it was sweet that Isaac and I were so alike we proposed less than two months apart. Neither of them knew the real reason why. They just thought we were hetero soul mates, which I used to think was only half true, and now I think is probably total bullshit.

I don’t say that, though.

Instead I remember Isaac, the night before my wedding. He showed up at the apartment Iss and I shared, stone drunk with tears on his face. “Why are you marrying her?” he whispered. “How can you marry her when I love you?”

Maybe that had been my chance, my chance to beg him to leave Annette and be with me. I didn’t take it. I didn’t forgive him. Even then, before the name meant anything, Jade Puget did not beg. That was the first and last time I ever had a broken heart, the first time I found ice and called it dignity.

“You don’t want to be with Marissa,” Isaac had said, so young and drunk and handsome, tears all down his face, loving me, _wanting_ me, pleading for me. “She’s not the one you love.”

I don’t regret what I did. I’m still proud of how strong and cold I was, how swift the cut, how clean the wound. I could have festered for years over that moment, but I did not—I ended it. I closed the door in Isaac’s face and bolted it, just in case. But he went away quietly, like I knew he would, and we haven’t broached the topic of he and I since then.

I did not run from Isaac. I only shut a door. When I saw him the next morning, he looked dashing in his tux, practically glowing with the bliss of a newlywed. He and Annette hadn’t looked happier on their wedding day as than they did on mine, and I forgave that too. I have forgiven it all, and forgotten the rest. I have _never_ run away.

In the back of my mind, I know that running does not suit me. I’ve never done it before. I don’t want to start now. I don’t listen to that thought, though.

“When, Isaac?” I ask coldly. I am angry now, and he should know it. I am not pretending to be calm, not for his benefit, not for mine. “When the _hell_ was this? Because I’m pretty fucking curious about the mysterious event I’ve apparently forgotten entirely.”

Isaac lies to me then. He doesn’t do that often and I don’t know why he bothers when I can always tell.

“You know what, I’ve been drinking,” he lies. It’s pure fabrication. “Forget what I said, I don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

“You’re not drunk,” I say, even though pointing it out goes against my better judgment. It’s an unspoken agreement of ours, not to push it, never to broach the topic again. He did the right thing, bowing out, making an excuse from his outburst—I had no idea he still thought about it. That he still thinks about it makes me unable to let it go. He isn’t drunk. Isaac is a very rational drinker, and he hasn’t been drinking. There are more holes in his excuse than a Kennedy assassination, and I’m not going to let it go, not this time.

Isaac only says my name. It’s a plea, and that gives me a sick joy in my guy, the same kind of thrill that would make me twist the knife if I fought with more than words.

He shouldn’t give me that kind of power. Give me that emotional blackness that eats through, a foulness and a nausea until I can’t stop it, can’t bite back the question, and not for bloody lips but heat and hate and laughter.

“Why did you do it, especially when you never intended to do it again?”

I hear the word and don’t want to. I can’t be thinking this, can’t imagine I’m really asking it. This is not who Jade Puget is. Isaac has a chance to speak and doesn’t take it, has a chance to save himself and balks, and I crash onward. “You never loved me, Isaac. You broke my oblivious heart and _fucked_ with me, named your curiosity love like it was an excuse, and didn’t stay to clean up the mess you left when you tore me in two… but I never, ever ran from you. I should have run then, and I should be running now, but I’m _not_. So don’t _ever_ call me a coward again, because I have spent my life _living_ with what you’ve done, and that is more than you can say. In fact, Zac, everything I’ve done is more than you can say, isn’t it? _I_ made this company, even if you paid for it; Marissa and I have Em, and you can’t even do that for your wife; and as bad as her post-partum depression got, _my_ wife has never tried to _kill herself_. Look a little closer at your own life, Isaac, before you stick your fucking face in mine.”

There is silence, and then I hear Isaac crying. I don’t feel bad; instead, disgust twists my gut and I’m sneering. “Marissa may not have been the right choice, Isaac, but you would have been the worst,” I say softly, taken by a nauseous glee, and hang up the phone. He’s not going to do anything but blubber, maybe gasp my name in the only way he ever will, which is grief. I’m taken with triumph at the thought that he still cares.

Just to prove I have a conscience, I decide I _will_ make peace with Adam. It is highly unlikely that an apology will kill me. I have it in me to be humble, I’ll prove that I do. I scribble him a quick note inviting him over to dinner—with Emmanuel sedated, there’s no better time for company—and I’m setting it on his desk when he slams into the room.

I jump. I can’t help it. Susan told me he went home. A family emergency, she said, which hopefully means that screeching woman of a man he has tested positive for HIV.  
Even I am taken aback at that thought. Even for me, that was a little strong.

“Adam,” I say, a little breathlessly. Adrenalin is still singing in my ears from the throw-down with Zac, which I’m sure I will regret later but just now feel great about, and he’s startled me. I feel a little guilty about what I’ve just thought, which doesn’t help the situation any.

Adam has a black look about him, but an oblique serenity starts around his eyes. He’s never looked so clear and calm, and it’s disconcerting. I never expected to see that look on Adam—never expected to see it anywhere but in mirrors. “Did… something happen?” I ask tentatively. We are probably still fighting, I can never tell, and I hope he’s not looking so disturbed because of anything I’ve done.

Adam nods. The movement looks detached, like his body is only a wooden puppet. The man pulling the strings is far away. “Yeah, something happened.”

“Is Hunter all right?” It just jumps off my tongue. I swear I never meant to say it. At least I manage to sound genuinely concerned, not spiteful.

Adam laughs, and it’s a horrific sound, hollow and dark. “Oh, yeah, Hunter’s fucking great,” he says, filled with that same awful amusement.

I know better than to pry. I hope it’s bad news, and wonder what’s wrong with me that I keep thinking things like that. I hold my note up like a paper shield. “Okay, well, I wrote you this note. I’m inviting you over for dinner.”

Humanity returns to Adam to permit a flicker of confusion. I am relieved. “Over for _dinner_?”

Maybe the kid just makes me feel like laughing, I don’t know, but I’m suddenly very amused. “Yes, you know, the meal between lunch and breakfast that’s traditionally eaten in evening. You’re under no obligation to accept. It will probably be a heinous experience.”

He raises his eyebrows, swinging his bag up onto his desk and throwing his coat at it. “I thought you were mad at me,” he says slowly. “I thought I was an incompetent fuck-up who lost a client and then yelled at you because somehow you always make me forget the rules and lose my head. How has that turned into a dinner invitation?”

He’s caught me, but instead of the usual squirm of discomfort, I meet that with a smile. “Call it an olive branch. I’ve got it on pretty good intel that what happened with Dorsinger wasn’t strictly your fault, and we both made idiots out of ourselves. The turf war with Davey makes this office tense enough; we don’t need morale dropping any further over a… Shall we call it a misunderstanding?”

The words coming out of my mouth are strangers to me, but I’m not amazed. I’m saying them on purpose. I am going out of my way to make amends with Adam. He is not _that_ good at his job; something is clearly wrong with me. I wait for the universe to implode, or at least for someone to run in and stop me; but no one does. I finish speaking. Adam looks suspicious.

“And you’re sure this isn’t just a passive-aggressive revenge plot?” he asks. He says it like he’s joking, but I can tell there’s some real concern.

“No, not positive,” I joke back, a phenomenon neither of us is really prepared for. “But I think I’ve had my fill of revenge for today. You should be reasonably safe.”

Adam thinks it over for a moment. “Well, I haven’t got anywhere else to be,” he decides aloud. “So all right. I accept.”

This turn of events is unexpected. See, this is what you get when you invite people over for dinner; but the Puget Family Funhouse hasn’t seen visitors in a long time. I’m not quite sure what the protocol is, to be honest. I decide to call Isabel and let her know, even though she always makes enough food for a family of twelve and I’m usually the only one there to eat it. Hopefully she’ll know what to do.

“Great,” I say, and my smile is suddenly forced. “I’ll see you tonight, then, around seven.”

I slink out of his office, wallowing in my brand-new mint-condition dread. I wonder if he feels it too. I wonder what on earth I’ve condemned myself to.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	15. Marissa

I have tried absolutely everything I can think of, and there’s no use. The man simply will not sleep with me. I have tried to be seductive, to be distant, to be hot, to be cold; nothing. I even tried for a pity-fuck, and he turned that down too. Either he has a resolve of steel, or I am really losing my touch. It’s probably not the latter, though. That’s all I’m saying.

I don’t know how I _ever_ believed he was straight. I can’t believe anyone else does, either. It is almost painful to watch. Smooth, successful, fit and handsome—my husband is an absolute _waste_ of a man.

Can I just say that I am _not_ a waste of a woman? You cannot expect me to sit here and _rot_ just because Jade doesn’t want me anymore, or maybe never wanted me to begin with. I don’t know much about turning gay. I mean, was it overnight? Or was it always there? If our marriage was based on a lie, a false pretense, and he always knew he didn’t want to sleep with me, I could get it annulled. But that would not solve this problem, despite what you think.

The thing is, I am beautiful. I am beautiful and it is expensive, looking like I do. Still, most of it came naturally, and Emmanuel would be stunning too if he had just a _little_ less of Jade in him. Don’t get me wrong, Jade makes a great accessory, but he’s not quite runway material. The point is, it’s obviously not looks I’m worried about here. Oliver—and I think it was Oliver—is like Rock Hudson come back to life. Rock Hudson _is_ dead, isn’t he?

It’s just that, we used a condom. I mean, we did. I remember. We hovered around it, after, limp and white on the carpet. It didn’t look like life. It looked jellyfish dead. Slimy, and wet, and very, very dead.

It smelled like a dentist.

And, I mean if you use a condom, you’re safe, right? We didn’t see the hole in it. He put his forehead on mine and we leaned, blotting out the light, and stared at that slick little piece of plastic, and we didn’t see any hole. It’s not like you hear these things break. It’s not like we knew, this is the one that will break, let’s use a different one.

The thing is, if it were only AIDs we had to worry about, that would be okay. I could probably live with herpes. I mean, people live with herpes all the time. It doesn’t kill you or anything.

But worse things can get through a broken condom than herpes. I mean, things that can kill you, and things that can’t, but are just as bad. Worse, even, when your husband absolutely will not, under any circumstances, sleep with you.

I have peed on a total of nine sticks. I feel like all I ever do anymore is urinate. At first, I thought maybe it was menopause. But anyway, I’m not that old, and seven of nine sticks came back positive. So I guess I’m pregnant.

I cannot even _tell_ you how much I don’t want to have another baby. I mean, look at Emmanuel. What a disaster he turned out to be. I don’t know why Jade ever went along with that whole fiasco. If he’d just put his foot down and said ‘no, sweetheart, I won’t sleep with you’ like a good gay husband ought to, I would never be in this mess. Well, okay, I’d probably still be in _this_ mess, but the whole Emmanuel situation would not even have occurred. Motherhood was trying enough before he went and got himself crippled. Now it’s like a full-time job. _Every_ two minutes he’s thundering around upstairs in his room. It sounds like a herd of elephants, and on top of the _constant_ headache, he needs to be waited on as if it were his legs that were broken. I swear to God, just an hour ago I walked past his room and he was awake, so of course he saw me, and he asked for a glass of _water_. Can you believe it? I had to walk all the way back down to the kitchen as if he didn’t have two perfectly good feet of his _own_ , not to mention a housekeeper. These things are what Isabel is for.

Needless to say, I do _not_ want to do this again. I mean, if Emmanuel can’t get his own goddamn water, _babies_ certainly can’t do it. Imagine how much work a newborn would be! I’d have to hire a new nanny, and you have no idea how tedious those interviews can be. Pregnancy is not a walk in the park, either. I’ll look like the moon, fat and pock-marked and pasty, like all the other pregnant women. Losing all the weight Emmanuel put on me was almost a crisis, considering all the hard work it took. If I even _look_ at a stray calorie, I gain it all back. My metabolism com _pletely_ changed when I had him.

Anyway, childbirth is a leading cause of death in women over forty, isn’t it? I don’t want to _die_ because a _condom_ broke. That’s supposed to be what my _husband_ worries about. I’m not even _gay_.

I pour myself a drink, not even thinking, and then have to spit out the first sip because, hello, the odds are seven to two I’m pregnant. I desperately need advice. If I can’t get Jade to sleep with me, he’ll never believe it’s his, and I have no idea what to do. I mean, the last time this happened was _years_ ago. I barely even remember high school. But it wasn’t such a big deal then. I was young and irresponsible and poor, not to mention the prettiest girl in the entire class, and these things were expected. I went with a few of my girlfriends and got it sucked out of me while it was still a little stick of cells floating around in my uterus. I put too much time, effort, and money into this body to sabotage it with a pregnancy, but for a woman of my wealth and status I don’t think abortions _or_ adoptions are socially acceptable.

Did you know that babies are technically classified as _parasites_? I might as well have a _tapeworm_ inside me. The longer I sit here and tell myself this can’t possibly be happening, the bigger that tapeworm is getting. Time is running out, and I need advice.

I creep into Emmanuel’s room. He’s got that glazed look that his painkillers give him, and he might even be drooling, but I know he’s awake because the second he sees me he attacks.

I expect him to send me tromping back downstairs like his personal servant, but instead he asks, “When can I go back to school?”

I don’t know how I feel about him going to public school anymore. I never liked it in the first place. I mean, he is the son if Jade Puget, who is known across the _world_ as a brilliant industrialist who revolutionized the advertising industry; and those kids are just too rough. I think the only thing that convinced me not to enroll him in private school straight off the bat was that killer smile his little friend has. What a charmer that one is. But this, this _catastrophe_ , makes me think that maybe he needs more structure in his life, more discipline. Right this minute, though, I want him to help me, so I’m not about to tell him that. He already hates his father; I’ll have Jade tell him.

“As soon as you feel strong enough,” I tell him cheerfully. Never underestimate the power of sucking up. “Clearly, if you aren’t strong enough to make it down the _stairs_ , you need more time.”

Well, it’s a point worth making. Emmanuel struggles into a sitting position. “It’s because of these pills,” he insists. “I can barely stand up without stumbling.”

I remember the drink I spat out with longing. I would very much like to be stumbling just now.

“Emmanuel, do you go to school with any pregnant girls?” I ask. I hope he is too drugged up to realize what a strange and unprecedented question this is.

“This isn’t about private school again, is it?” he groans, sounding a little too lucid.

“Have you taken your meds recently?” I ask suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re taking enough?”

Emmanuel raises Jade’s eyebrows at me. They are great eyebrows. Mine need constant maintenance. If there is one thing this latest uterus parasite will miss out on, it is Jade’s genetically perfect eyebrows. “Yes, Mom. If I was taking any more it would kill me, don’t worry.”

I nod, trying to play it off. “Good, that’s good,” I say evasively. “So, any pregnant girls? I mean, who have gotten discreet abortions or anything?”

Emmanuel laughs at me, and I’m not a big fan of that. “Mom, I am definitely not _ever_ going to have sex, okay? I am the biggest loser in the whole state.”

I’m not mom of the year or anything, but I can’t very well let my son think things like that. I mean, his mother used to be a supermodel, and we’re very, very rich. He’s obviously not a loser, even if he is a little scrawny for his age. I mean, he’s tall enough, just hasn’t filled out. Like his father, he’ll probably never end up with the dreamy build his little friend Scott flaunts, but he’s not ugly. Also the whole not ever having sex bit sounds dangerously like his father.

“What could the other kids possibly have that you don’t?” I ask him.

Emmanuel laughs in a way that is utterly like his father, when Jade used to laugh. It’s a quiet, loathing sound that has nothing to do with humor. I hated it when Jade did it and I hate it from Emmanuel, too. Just the sound of it sets me on edge. _Like I’m going to tell you_ , his eyes say. It’s a look I’m familiar with.

“You’re just like your father,” I spit at him, disgusted by us both—him for being Jade in miniature when I’ve tried so hard to nurture him, and me for thinking my fifteen-year-old son could help me with something like this. “I don’t know why I even fucking bother.”

I’m not too proud of the way I storm out of his room, like a little girl throwing a tantrum, but right now that’s what I am. I don’t _want_ to be pregnant. I _can’t_ be pregnant. I make up my mind right that second that if Jade won’t sleep with me tonight, and I swear I will pull out all the stops and do whatever it takes, I am just going to have to tell him the truth.

Whatever I come up for _that_ to be.

  
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This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	16. Adam

The Bentley purrs along happily, diving behind traffic and flaunting the law as I try to keep up with Jade’s sleek BMW. It looks like a shark, and it’s about as carnivorous. It is eating pavement like I don’t know what—a really hungry shark, I guess. I’m not much for metaphors.

As I adapt to the breakneck speed and no-holds-barred feel of the thing, I realize it’s a game of tag. A rich man’s game of deadly chase, and I feel as wasteful and rich and carefree and reckless, flaunting youth and power and death. What is there, after all, to live for? Love has left me. Life can follow. I don’t care. It isn’t a death wish, or even a desire to die; it is the end of eros. When the need to love and thrive deserts you, what is left but thanatos, but Russian roulette?

I whip around a semi truck and, for a second, feel alive. I let go and floor the engine, nearly ending up in the backseat of the Trailblazer in front of me. The glint of Jade’s car comes closer as I weave through the frightened commuters between us, and my burst of speed closes the distance; I flank him, the Bentley flying, screaming into sixth gear. The last second nears and his powerhouse Z8 leaps ahead, easily breaking 100, diving in front of me with that near-death thrill. I downshift as quickly as a I can, knowing my life could depend on the competence of those well-coordinated moments, and Jade’s too; and the moment passes, taking the threat of fiery death with it. Jade brake-checks me, skidding onto an exit ramp with only a fraction of a second left till impact. I follow him, heart in my throat, pulse peaking; I survived. I made it through Jade’s gauntlet. I kept up and I’m alive. ‘Exhilarated’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. I feel _alive_.

I can’t even tell you what a relief that is.

Everything has gone wrong in life, but for now I am grinning. Jade and I raced death, and won. I have never driven so fast or with such abandon; I wonder if this is the usual method of his commute, or is he’s measuring me, trying to see if I can keep up, if I’m worthy.

Why not just let go, I wonder as we travel more serenely down a private boulevard. If a man taunts death on the freeway day after day, why not one of those days lets go? Why not plow into the guardrail at eighty, ninety, one hundred thirty miles an hour? Why not finish it?

Because he’s a man who loves his work. If nothing else, if not his wife, if not his family—and as hard as it is to imagine Jade loving, I’m sure he must—he loves his work, and it’s not death he’s toying with but life; feeling his heart rate surge, adrenalin making every breath crisp and fresh and real, and for those few fatal moments, every day, feeling alive.

Jade leads us down another private lane. It twists around a crest in the earth and, as if out of nowhere, the most beautiful house I’ve ever laid eyes on is perched on the rise. Instead of the usual stucco, it is brick; windows wind across the entire front vista and the house curves out in a turret to one side. I stop the car just outside of the four-car garage, gaping up at his house. It’s almost a fairytale castle. I’ve done the Hollywood tour, a million years ago when we moved out here, and Brad Pitt’s house is not even this big. It’s better than anything I could have imagined.

Jade walks over to where I stand next to the well-sated Bentley. He sees the look on my face and says with distaste, “It’s awful, isn’t it? My wife picked it.”

“Awful?” I half-laugh. “God, fucking Prince Charming could live here.” I feel lighter than air, still buzzing from the drive.

Jade gives me a smile, and it feels like a gift. “Yeah, it’s a bit much. I got the office building, she got the house.” He claps his hand on my shoulder like we’re on the same football team—companionship, kindred. It’s a joke, that feeling; he’s seen where I live. He and I have _nothing_ in common. Our zip codes will tell you that.

I feel the need to claim my right to his gesture, to prove I am in fact worthy of the kinship in it. “I just moved into a new apartment,” I blurt, but that sounds truculent so I add, “and I thought that was pretty nice, until I saw this.”

Jade raises his eyebrows, smiling. “Oh yeah? How nice?”

“ _Almost_ as nice as my office,” I laugh. We’re friends, I think. Friends being friendly. Two dinners together; that is enough for me. I’ll call it friendship, if only because I so badly need the friend.

Jade’s smile twists, fading somewhat. “Does Hunter like it?” he asks. He tries to make it sound causal, but there’s bite to his question. He’s really just not comfortable with my sexuality, I guess—either that, or Hunter made a less than stellar impression on him. He did behave like a child, but I guess—and it’s strange, so strange and empty and cold to think—it isn’t my problem, not anymore.

“Ah, I’m moving in alone,” I say, too quietly to match the tenor of our friendly banter, struggling to find words. “Hunt and I have… differences that can’t be… resolved.”

“That must be terrible for you,” Jade says automatically. He sounds sincere as a bank teller. It would make me angry, as Jade seems so apt to do, if I weren’t quite so hollow. I have no wish to feel _anything_ for Hunter, be it good or bad, but the passing should still require mourning, shouldn’t it?

It’s hard to tell. I’m stone again; I dig my fingernails into my palms and feel nothing. If there is mourning to be done, I’m in no state to do it.

“To be honest? I can’t feel a thing,” I tell him. Maybe I’m too trusting, too honest, but what can telling him hurt? If he can use it to hurt me, bring it on. I’d relish the humanity of pain. Mine seems to have been misplaced.

Jade gives me an appraising look. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out an orange prescription bottle. He shakes it and grins. I’m struck by the smile—there’s something very real in it, a dangerous kind of honesty. We must be friends, because I can’t imagine he’d let anyone else see such a look.

“You say that now,” he tells me. “A couple of these will _really_ sort you out.”

I’m curious to read the label. I want to know what Jade is taking. I make out the name—Marissa Puget—before he drops it back into his pocket, lest I mistake his confession for customer service.

“I expect I should introduce you to the family before I start offering drugs,” Jade says. There’s still a light of amusement in his eyes. “Although you’ll wish I’d done things the other way around once you meet them, you know me. I’m a slave to convention.”

I manage a laugh at that. I still wonder what’s in the bottle, why he’s taking someone else’s pills. I have never been less comfortable in my life as I am following Jade Puget up the steps and into his magnificent home.  
The interior of the house escapes my vocabulary. I don’t possess the temerity to degrade it with my tongue; it’s the finery, the simple extravagance and grace, of our office, in magnitude. Everything is perfect, polished, shining; too perfect for a person to live in. People have flaws, after all. I felt I was ruining the entrance hall just by being in it; as he leads me through the kitchen it only gets worse—or better, depending on your perspective. I expect the house to spit me onto the lawn for spoiling it; I walk across the halls like they’re a tongue, and I’m the bad taste upon it. I wince at every footfall.

The rooms are darkened and dead silent. “Is anyone home?” I ask him as he gives me an abbreviated tour.

He nods, gesturing into the wide archway leading to the kitchen we’ve just come to. The kitchen looks like something you’d see in a gourmet restaurant. Iron Chef could be filmed here, not that I’ll ever admit to Jade I’ve watched Iron Chef. Copper pots and marble counters gleam. The economy-sized fridge is stainless steel without as much as a fingerprint on it. I wonder where the school photos are, the wallet-sized portraits of Jade’s perfect children, the messy finger-paintings from childhood, the perfect report cards. Shouldn’t there at least be a realtor’s magnet, or a cheap souvenir from a family trip with a magnet on the back? I look for sandy lizards with _Cancun_ stamped on their backs. For the first time, I realize how cold this house is. It’s beautiful, of course; but then, so are ice sculptures.

“This is Isabel,” Jade says. A short, plump woman is glowing at one of the counters, up to her elbows in dough. She’s dark and smiling, covered in flour. The warmth of her smile and the glow that emanates from her makes her lovely, makes her almost enough to fill up this mausoleum of a house, this icy fortress of a home.

“You have a beautiful wife,” I say to Jade, and mean it. She is. She’s shining like the sun, and I understand what’s kept Jade from icing over entirely all these years, if he has this woman to come home and thaw for. But Jade instantly looks horrified and I know I’ve made some awful mistake. This is why one doesn’t associate with the lower classes, I practically can hear him thinking.

Isabel laughs out loud, pulling tiny, delicate hands from the mound of dough. It’s a full, hearty sound, floating bold and breathless through the air; I get the feeling the warms any room she enters. “I am very flattered, sir,” she says joyfully, her Spanish accent thick and rolling, filling her voice like some exotic flavor, cinnamon or cloves. “Maybe I should marry _you_ , and teach Mr. a lesson for looking so scandalized. I will be his good wife, and he will call me beautiful, and then who will cook for you?” She laughs again, wiping at her eyes, smudging flour on her face. “It is too funny!”

Her speech is stilted, each word careful and separate from the next. She doesn’t use contractions, and speaks so clearly I can’t pretend to have misheard her. I wish I could summon embarrassment for my gaffe. Instead, a slow misery seeps into me. “Isabel is your cook,” I say, so Jade doesn’t have to. She laughs merrily, returning to the dough she’d been kneading.

Jade nods, somber. He can’t laugh at his mistakes, or anyone else’s. Maybe he is as bleak and perfect as the museum he lives in. A collection of beautiful things that are cold to the touch—but don’t touch, oh no, never do that. “I think I like your version better,” he mutters under his breath. He turns to the marvelous staircase behind us, framed by the arched doorway. A tall, unnaturally thin woman is making her way down the grand stairs, Oriental robe clinging to her generous breasts and trailing on the steps behind her. Each measured step she takes reveals a little more skin until I’m worried she’ll walk out of the silk entirely; a slim hand clasps it closed again just in time. Her hair is brown, but not as dreary as the word; it shines like a living thing, pooling over one bared shoulder and down her back in lustrous curls. She is beautiful, there is no way to deny it; but never have I seen a person quite so cold, not even Jade. She flashes a becoming smile and strikes a pose at the bottom of the stairs. Isabel mutters something in Spanish and hurries out of the kitchen. I can see now that this is Jade’s wife, and what a perfect arctic couple they must be; unflawed by God’s hand, utterly immaculate in their hollow halls. They must have beautiful children, born frozen solid and thawed to life afterward.

The porcelain woman speaks. Her voice is warm, but falsely so, like the heat is a trick she’s playing. She sizes me up with glittering eyes which, despite the expertly understated make-up, are a little glazed. “Is this one yours, or can I have him?” she asks in a way that makes my skin tingle. Whether it’s with sex or dread, though, I can’t say.

Jade turns a color that’s really very unique on him. “And this is my lovely wife,” he says. Jade is clearly of the school that volume and conviction go hand in hand. His voice is as forced as I’ve ever heard it. Suddenly all his careful, practiced cool has vanished.

“She must be a remarkable woman,” I say, meaning it. If she comes any closer, Jade might actually break a sweat.

She smiles at me like I’m about to be eaten. I’m having difficulty remembering if, when Jade invited me over for dinner, he specified whether I’d be served a meal, or served _as_ a meal. I don’t think his ice bitch wife would hesitate in lapping up my blood. “I’m Marissa,” she says. Her voice is unexpectedly husky for such a slight woman. It seems to boast an alluring darkness to her. Her decidedly bedroom eyes are smoky. I wonder if she’s drunk, and suddenly wish I was. It’s a dull panic, but it’s a survival instinct I’m grateful I still possess.

“I’m Adam,” I say, “Adam Carson.” I know I should offer a handshake, but I’m scared to touch her.

I glance over at Jade, hoping there’s safety in numbers, but he’s disappeared. My eyes follow his path into the grand hall. He’s pouring himself a glass of scotch at the ornate sideboard. I cross my fingers and pray silently he’ll pour me one too, and then wonder if praying for a thing like that will get me filed under ‘Hell’.

“My husband didn’t tell me we were having company,” Jade’s wife says, swaying her hips as she comes closer. I do not want her to come closer. Jade is still far away. I’m frightened. “He should know better than to keep things from me. Especially scrumptious things like you, Adam.”

The woman purrs my name, and I seriously question why men aren’t issued rape whistles. I feel every bit as at risk as a defenseless young woman and yes, having a whistle _would_ make me feel safer.

God, but sometimes I’m glad no one else can hear the things I think.

Marissa steps ever closer. I can’t think of a way to back away discreetly and it would be impolite to run screaming, so I let her run a manicured dagger down my arm. It gives me goosebumps in an almost entirely unpleasant way.

I laugh nervously. “Isabel!” Marissa barks without warning. My ear drums are quite possibly shattered. “Are you going to take Adam’s coat?”

When Isabel does not materialize out of thin air, a look like poison twists Marissa’s perfect face. Jade comes to the rescue, handing me a glass of scotch. “Thank you,” I say, a little too desperately. Marissa plucks Jade’s own glass from his hand.

“He’s _cute_ ,” she says to Jade, winking at me. He lets her have a sip before he takes his glass back. Before she can reclaim it, he downs the amber liquid in a single uncouth gulp.

“Why don’t you dress for dinner, dear,” he suggests through gritted teeth. His breath right now is 80 proof at least.

“I was drinking that,” Marissa protests crossly. I study a bare wall intently and wish I was deaf.

Jade gives her a smile that would seem warm, if you didn’t know any better. “I’ll pour you a glass of white for dinner,” he promises.

Marissa throws him a pout I suspect is for my benefit and slinks back up the stairs, grinding her ass cheeks against one another like she’s Marilyn Monroe. Just because something worked for the original starlet doesn’t mean it will work for you. If I was straight, maybe it would have more effect.

Jade waits until she’s disappeared down a corridor to breathe a sigh of relief. “Another scotch?” he asks, heading back to the sideboard. My glass is untouched, but he doubles its contents anyway. Now, I have enough sense to know scotch is meant to be sipped; but Jade knocks his back like a shot. My glass looks like a double right about now, but his wife, who I’m relatively certain is trying to seduce me, is coming back, and I won’t be shown up; so I follow suit.

Jade raises his empty glass in a toast. “Well met, Carson,” he says, holding the decanter in the other hand. “I’m going to go ahead and bring this to dinner, but you seem like a sensible man. Would you like a glass of wine with your scotch?”

I laugh at that. The sense of companionship is back. Jade throws an arm around my shoulder and leads me to the dining room, which looks like it’s outfitted for royalty.

“What do you think of it all?” he asks, refilling my glass. I can’t help but notice he’s pouring heavier now than he was earlier. Perhaps the race to oblivion has grown more desperate.

“Your life?” I ask. We clink glasses. “You have to understand this is all very surreal to me. I never thought I’d _meet_ Jade Puget, let alone enjoy his hospitality. You were my hero all through college. I had an issue of Newsweek with you on the cover, and I must have read your interview a thousand times. I had to hide it under the mattress so Hunter wouldn’t find it.” I realize I’m making him sound rather like porn, so I clear my throat awkwardly and decide it’s my turn to toast. “It’s an honor,” I declare, tossing back what we’ll call my third shot of scotch just as his son walks in. Isabel stands behind him, shepherding him in.

“Come along, little master. Take your seat,” she chides, giving him a final shove and retreating to the kitchen. From the smell of things, dinner is nearly done.

I’m embarrassed that this is the way I meet Jade’s son: with a mouthful of scotch, which is obviously a sipping drink. The boy stands next to his chair, looking young and pale and very much like his father.

“You must be Emmanuel,” I say warmly, standing and leaning across the wide oak table to offer him a hand. The boy shrugs his cast at me and I know how Jade felt when Hunter snubbed his handshake. I slip back into my seat, hoping it doesn’t show. “I’m Adam. I work for your father.”

“What, do you want an award?” Emmanuel looks to his father and asks petulantly, “What’s he doing here? You don’t have any more friends than I do. Is he some kind of hostage?”

Jade gives his son a smile that is painful for all of us. “If you’ll act civil just this once, I’ll let you have a glass of wine with dinner.”

“A glass of wine, big effing deal. You should have thought of bribing your underage son with alcohol sooner, it’s a real winner. Anyway, are you trying to kill me? Alcohol and narcotic painkillers? That cocktail will put me in a coma,” Emmanuel spits, glowering.

I have never heard anyone speak so irreverently in my life. I’m extremely impressed that he talks this way to Jade, when the rest of us spent our time worshipping at his feet. I can’t help myself—I feel black mirth, a real feeling, and burst out laughing. “I think you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met,” I tell Emmanuel. I like this kid. “I’ve never heard anyone talk to your dad like that.”

Emmanuel is less impressed with me. “Well, I’m not one of you zealots,” he says, staring fiercely into my eyes like it’s a dare. “I don’t think _he’s_ much of a big effing deal either.”

“Language, dear,” Isabel says, bringing in a basket of warm rolls. “You’re at the dinner table. Be mindful.”  
“Sit down, Em,” Jade adds, jumping onto the parental bandwagon. He sounds like the vice president of Mercer Pacific but in no way like a father. I wonder if their whole relationship is like this, or if he’s trying to be authoritative because I’m here. Somehow, I can’t picture Jade with a baseball mitt or a basketball or teaching his son to ride a bike. It’s probably only evidence of a lacking imagination, I tell myself.

Sulking, the boy does as he’s told.

“So how’d you break your arm?” I ask him, struggling under the weight of so much awkward silence. I don’t have to feign enthusiasm. This kid is probably the biggest insight to the life of Jade Puget I’ll ever get, and I’ve always liked kids anyway. When I was younger, I always imagined being a father. The whole gay thing kind of ruined that one for me, though. I’m sure Hunt would have loved to adopt an underprivileged Ethiopian orphan or something of the sort, but we were always too concerned with the immediate future to discuss it. Looking at Emmanuel, sitting there sulking with his father’s face, I’m a little sad that someone else’s orphan is the closest I’ll ever get. Then I remind myself that I’m young, that I have time, that I can worry about the biological issues I have with adoption if and when I come to it.

Emmanuel is glowering at his plate. “I fell off a motocross bike,” he mutters, clearly not proud.

“That’s pretty hardcore,” I tell him, “but I can top it.” I roll up my left sleeve and show him the yellow scar that eats up my forearm like candle wax, smeared from wrist to elbow. His eyes gleam, interest piqued, and I know I’ve won him over. I’m probably the first one who’s told him his injury is cool. I wonder what kind of deprived childhood he’s had, if he doesn’t think getting hurt is the mark of a true bad-ass.

“Cool,” he says, voice a little hushed in awe. It’s a beastly thing, that scar. One of my best features. “What happened?”

“Knife fight,” I say suavely, not skipping a beat. Emmanuel’s eyes widen. He’s not sure if he believes me.

“Bullshit,” Jade says before I can invent a story to go with the claim. His eyes are smiling.

“I fell off a skateboard,” I confess. “Not as cool as yours, I know, but isn’t the scar impressive? A whole chunk of my skin was laying on the pavement when I got up. I’ve never seen so much blood. Later on the doctor told me he would’ve given me a skin graft if I’d come to the ER.”

“Gross!” Emmanuel cries, but he’s smiling a little bit. I’ve successfully turned his shame and humiliation into a pissing contest. Maybe I’d be an okay dad after all. “Well, my _bone_ was sticking out of my _arm_. I almost fainted it was so nasty.”

“Disgusting, man,” I say appreciatively. “That’s going to be a _sick_ scar.”

Emmanuel nods with real enthusiasm. “This one time—” he starts to say, but before our conversation can continue, two things happen in rapid succession.

“Dinner is served,” Isabel says, bringing in an enormous roast on a pewter platter. In almost the same moment, Marissa drapes herself in the other doorway. She’s in a skimpy black cocktail dress, its neckline too low for either of us to be comfortable, and her nose is wrinkled in distaste. “Are scar really appropriate dinner conversation?” she sniffs, full of disdain. I tense up, waiting for the house to spit me onto the line. She moves to stand behind my chair and drapes her claws on my shoulders. “Our guest will think you’re vulgar, Emmanuel.”

If she wants to pretend I wasn’t the one who brought the subject up, that’s okay with me. Almost. “Actually, that was my bad. We were comparing war wounds,” I say. I can’t let the kid take all the heat. Emmanuel looks at me like I’m very brave, and I wonder if I’ve endangered my life. I wasn’t aware I was being inappropriate—I thought Marissa had that area covered—but I guess that goes to show how cultured _I_ am. Miss Manners would have a field day. I don’t care, though. I just want her to stop _touching_ me.

Marissa doesn’t say anything. She sniffs loudly, though, and I guess that’s supposed to be a crushing blow. If this is what passes for discipline around here, there’s no wonder why Emmanuel spoke to Jade the way he did.

Isabel brings in several other dishes and pours a glass of red wine for Jade and I, a glass of white for Marissa.  
Jade refills my Scotch glass as Isabel serves. I wonder how the hell I’m going to drive home after drinking all this.

“Marissa, why don’t you join us,” Jade instructs dispassionately. His wife rakes her nails across my back as she walks to her seat, mistaking my shudder for a thing born of pleasure.

“I like him,” Marissa tells Jade.

“Have you even spoken to him yet? Tell me his name. Right now, quick. His name,” Jade challenges critically. I feel like a piece of meat.

Emmanuel kicks me under the table. “Isn’t it great when they talk about you like you aren’t here?”

“It really is a special feeling,” I agree. I glance at his red slice of meat and his cumbersome cast. “I’m pretty much a ninja with a steak knife; can I cut that for you?”

“I’m not an invalid,” he grumbles, but we both know he’s not cutting it with force of pride alone. “I don’t need help.”

“Well good, because I don’t _want_ to help,” I tell him. “If possible, I’d like to make things more difficult for you, because I’m feeling a little insecure about my scar next to a compound fracture. But I won that knife fight, and I want to show off my cutlery skills.”

Emmanuel gives me a rueful smile and slides me his plate. I’m halfway through the meat, spinning the knife between cuts and making my best kung fu sound effects, when Jade and Marissa fall silent. Even Emmanuel stops giggling. The only way not to spontaneously die of embarrassment is to pretend I’ve not noticed. So I finish cutting and return Emmanuel’s plate with a bow, as if all of what I’ve just done is totally normal and how anyone else in the world might cut meat. Emmanuel lets out another giggle. I’m guessing adults don’t treat with him very often.

“Do you have children?” Marissa asks. She sounds legitimately curious; I wonder if she’d want to eat them too. I don’t feel like blurting out the word homosexual—it’s kind of a conversation killer—so instead I tell her I’m single. Which, strangely enough, I in fact am.

This is obviously a mistake. She seems to deliberately misinterpret what I’ve said and raises her eyebrows at her impassive husband. “Did you bring him home just for me? I wish I’d gotten you something! Dibs—I’m calling dibs. You can’t have him, he’s mine.”

Jade gives her a look that would have made me wet myself. I’m surprise the ground doesn’t shake, since it’s obvious that hell itself has opened up to let that look out. “That’s enough, Marissa.”

I am suddenly very interested in my meal. It’s delicious, and I have half a mind to go find Isabel and tell her that. That doing so would get me out of the suddenly frigid room is obviously a coincidence.

“Since when do you get to tell me what’s enough?” Marissa snaps back. “You’re the one who vowed to never enjoy himself again, _not_ me. I’ll do what I damn well please with him, and you can’t stop me!”

“I did not invite my colleague here to be your plaything, Marissa. I think we’ve made Adam uncomfortable enough. Please, pull yourself together.”

Jade’s gone subarctic. I study the tabletop intently. The inlay is just _lovely_. Across the table, Jade’s son does the same. Poor fucking kid. I can’t even imagine growing up like this.

“How dare you speak to me like that!” Marissa is getting louder. “I’ll fuck him just to spite you!”

Emmanuel quietly excuses himself from the table and flees. I wish I could do that same. I’m not sure why I don’t. I’ve suddenly developed conversion disorder paralysis.

“Stop yourself,” Jade growls. He’s closer than I’ve ever seen to expressing real feeling, and as fascinating as that is, I’ve heard enough.

“I’m sitting right here,” I say, and my voice doesn’t waver. I’m getting better at being an executive. “And so was your _son_ , up until a moment ago. Can we please be adults for a moment?”

“Come upstairs with me and we can be whatever you want,” Marissa purrs, trying to be seductive again. “If you came here for Jade, you’re wasting your time. He doesn’t put out anymore.”

“I’m _gay_!” I cry, too loudly. For a moment, it does shut her up—but only for a moment.

“Oh, perfect! Why don’t you two faggots just rot in _hell_ together?” Marissa screams, breaking into tears. She grabs her glass and the bottle of white and leaves the room as quickly as her stilettos allow.

Jade stares quietly at his folded hands. “And this is how I hoped tonight wouldn’t go,” he sighs. “This is a hell of a way to apologize, isn’t it? Dragging you into the Puget family’s personal hell.” He looks up at me, eyes dark and wide and pleading. “I’m sorry, Adam,” he says, draining his wine glass once eye contact becomes too much. “I much preferred dinner your way, I’ll admit.”

I’m not sure what to think.

“You have a charming wife,” I finally say. We’re quiet for a moment, leaning back in our chairs, before Jade starts laughing. I join in, and we laugh until he’s wiping tears from his eyes and I have a stitch in my side. As our hysterics die down, he lays a hand on my arm and squeezes lightly.

It’s the second time today he’s voluntarily touched me. Blood races under my skin and I can’t not wonder why Marissa said _two_. I mean, there’s me, but—but Jade is clearly straight, I remind myself sternly. The proof of that sat across the table from me not ten minutes ago. I shake my head. It doesn’t matter if Jade is gay or straight or omnisexual; the things I’m feeling are entirely inappropriate for a myriad of reasons. I blame the scotch. It is strong stuff and a convenient scapegoat.

“Adam, I’ve got something to tell you,” Jade says, growing serious again. I am painfully rapt.

“I’m going away for a while,” he says. “Hell, if I’m lucky, I won’t have to come back. Mercer Pacific is going global, and I have the honor of representing the firm overseas.”

I find I don’t know what to say. It’s probably the alcohol, but I’m feeling faint. Jade Puget, hero and mentor and embarrassingly sexy boss—Jade Puget, friend. He can’t leave me. If he leaves, I’ll have no one. One of these days, we’ll get dinner parties figured out, and there will be no screaming; it’ll get better, if only he stays. He can’t give up on us yet.

“How many?” I ask. My voice sounds a little funny, even to me. “I mean, how many seas will you be going over, exactly?”

Jade squints at me. “Oh, at least six of the seven,” he says. “Unless I go left—or, you know, West; geography’s not my best thing—and then just the one, I think.” I must look crestfallen, because he gives me a quick grin. “Kyoto,” he adds. “I’m going to Kyoto, of the continent Japan. That’s where I’ll be. Six seas away.”

“Or just the one,” I say, managing a weak laugh, “if you go left.” Nothing is funny.

“After a year or so, hopefully the company will be prospering in Japan and I can move on to another city. Like Sydney. I’d have to go over _seven_ seas to get there. Or just the one.” He says this like it’s hopeful news.

“Oh,” I hear myself say. I sound like a deflated balloon. Japan is awfully far away. Only AquaMan could swim all six seas just to visit his boss. I’ll be stuck in the office with Davey.

“Are you all right, Carson?” Jade asks me. I’m not, not even a little bit, but I really couldn’t tell you why. What do I care if Jade leaves? So what if he’s my only friend. I’ll make new friends.

I’ll make new friends and we’ll have dinner parties where no one screams, and then he’ll be jealous.

Somehow, whenever I drink, I seem to end up devising strange plots to arouse Jade’s jealously. I’m not sure why that is.

“I’m not sure, but I think I’m taking this harder than Hunter fucking Colin,” I say softly, staring into my wine glass.

Jade’s quiet for a moment. “He slept with someone else?” he finally asks. This is a big step for him; I know how uncomfortable it makes him, me being gay. “That’s… it’s rough, it’s just really rough. When I found out Marissa was the blue light special, I… I lost it. I mean, I wasn’t even sleeping with her, but I still slept on the couch for three months just to stay away from her. I took it really hard. I’m sorry, Adam. This has got to be very difficult for you.”

His voice is quiet and full of compassion. This emotional, sharing thing is a new side of Jade, and I don’t know why he waited to bring it out till he’s leaving.

“You didn’t leave her?” I ask, looking at his lined, handsome face as if for the first time. And it does seem like the first time; have I really ever looked before? There’s a softness to him I’ve never noticed before this moment.

Jade’s eyes seem to open up. He lays a hand on mine. I’m keeping score tonight, and that makes three. “You did the right thing, leaving him. I… I have a business arrangement with my wife, not a marriage. They’re both contracts, but… Sometimes I wonder. If I’d just left her, the first time… what would my life be life? What would _I_ be like? I don’t rue those questions. In fact, I relish them. They give me hope… that somehow, I could have been anything but _this_.”

His hand is still laying on mine. The comforting gesture makes my whole body tingle with a slow heat. The last thing in the world I want is for that hand to move, but at the same time, if he leaves it there he’ll kill me. I’ll go mad. “Whatever else there is, whatever could have been, it’s not too late to find out,” I suggest. God, my mouth is dry. I take a sip of the wine. It helps, a little.

Jade laughs, pulling away from me. Almost unconsciously, I wish he hadn’t. I feel something beyond form reaching out for his warmth, and whatever intangible that’s plaguing me, I’m ashamed. His laugh is a hard little thing, angry. “I don’t ever intend to get divorced, if that’s your implication,” he says, a little bitter. “My parents fought, my country fights, and it’s worked out pretty well so far. There are casualties, but I’m not one of them. I wish I was that man, but I’m not. It’s not honor or misplaced pride, either; we made a sacred vow before God, and I haven’t broken it in eighteen years of marital suffering. An argument or two is… well, it’s more than that, but… I just don’t mean to. Abortions and divorces—Catholics won’t get either. I won’t let my wife go two for two.”

There’s that laugh again, and Isabel slips in and starts clearing the table. She’s a shade of silence, doing her best to be invisible. Most of the plates are untouched, and Jade’s mumble of gratitude is white noise. I take another sip of wine. This probably isn’t appropriate dinner conversation, but why the hell not? Nothing about tonight has been conventional, at least not since Jade dropped his wife’s prescription back into his tailored pocket.

“You believe in God?” I ask. The surprise in my voice is audible, but I’m a glass of scotch past caring. Yes, that surprises me. Why shouldn’t he know it? Jade Puget is too bleak a man for faith. I’m sure he knows that already. I’m sure I don’t need to protect him from it.

Jade nods grimly. “Oh, he’s a mean bastard, vindictive as hell, and I don’t like him much. But I have to believe in something.”

I lean forward. “Why not love, or beauty, or freedom?” I suggest. I slip easily into the pattern of conversation Hunter and I used to enjoy, once upon a time. I gesture with my wine glass, feeling intellectual and a little European. Argument for argument’s sake; philosophy between friends. I realize suddenly that I missed this. I’m not sure when it was lost, but I’m glad to have found it again.

Jade cracks a smile. It’s the visual equivalent of a sucker-punch. “None of those things exist,” he says wanly. Before I can argue, he holds up one slim hand. “Whatever it is you’re going to say, whatever argument you have, listen. Do you have proof? Can you prove love to me, Adam? Forgive me, but it seems to me like your true love is fucking someone else, like mine chose marriage and the country club to poorly-bred, penniless, unaccomplished me years ago. It’s ancient history now, and maybe I would have believed you then, but… What’s beauty, Adam? Are you going to say art is beautiful? That Monet in our foyer, it came with papers, and still I’ll ask you, what’s art? Or my wife—is my wife what beauty is? The drunk woman with the awful scar, sitting upstairs with a bottle of wine and a face rough with salt? And freedom—when was the last time you felt free, Adam? I’ve never felt these things, or seen them, or touched them—why should I believe they’re out there? Why should a lonely old man like me believe that these things exist for other people, just not for me? Frankly, Ad, I’m just not that generous.”

My words fall out of my mouth in a hot red line. God, I missed this. I missed thinking. And to have it here, with Jade, like this—I wish I had the words to tell him that this moment, he and I, that this is beauty and love and all the rest, that this moment is endless in its meaning, flawless in its purity. I’m not drunk enough to make the attempt. Instead I argue, “How is God any different? You can’t see or feel or hold him, can you? I was raised Catholic as they come, and in a million hours of Mass, I never felt a thing. I’ve drunk more blood of Christ than you have expensive scotch and gorged on his body, and I have _never_ heard his voice. If there’s no proof of truth or art or love, how can there be proof of your invisible omniscient god?”

Jade leans forward to meet me, propping his elbows on the table. His wedding band, white gold, catches the light and laughs at me. “Shall I ask why you’re so adamant, why you’ve renounced your baptism? Is it because you think God has renounced you, because you couldn't stand the pain of being cast out from His sight? No, that’s a conversation for another night. The proof, Adam, my proof, is in the state of the world. Misery, futility, anguish. It’s rampant. We never would have reached this point if we weren’t still expecting God to save us. Oh, we’d all be much happier if we’d never existed, or at least less miserable. Now what sick bastard but this power-tripping God of ours would hurl us out of oblivion and so cruelly, so blindly, into existence? It’s not for our own amusement that we’re here, I assure you.”

I knew Jade was a remarkable man but this, this I never expected. Still, I think I’ve caught him. I believe, for a minute at least, in an answer that he’s never thought of before… but of course he has. “So believe in misery! Believe in despair. Believe in hatred and agony and failure. You’ve proof enough of that!”

Jade’s smile is much warmer this time. “See, Carson, I went to Berkeley too. Watch this, because I’m about to kick your ass.” He clears his throat, mock-pretentiously. “Misery or hatred or despair, selfishness or vanity or narcissism, I can’t put faith in those things. I invented every one of them, depending on my mood, on _whim_ , here in my own head. My misery is a figment of my imagination. But I do have that imagination—I did _create_ those things, those thoughts and unwarranted emotions, in my own way.”

“Cogito ergo sum,” I say. I took philosophy like every other graduate student. I know this stuff—Descartes, methodological skepticism, the whole nine yards.

Jade nods his head in acknowledgement of my muttered contribution. “You know what I believe in, Carson? You know what I’ll call objective? Man. I believe in man, in man’s existence, and man would not exist without God.”

“Because God created Man,” I conclude logically.

“Haven’t you been listening? Because Man created God,” Jade corrects. There’s a smile on his face, so I scowl. He’s patronizing me. He’s philosophically patronizing me, the ass. I swat at him, but drunk as I’m getting, the swing goes wide.

Jade leans back in his chair, smiling. “Suck it, Berkeley,” he teases. For some reason I won’t admit to, this makes me blush furiously. The fact that I’m blushing, of course, makes me blush harder.

“Are you blushing?” Jade asks, as if he’s genuinely curious. His eyes glitter.

“After the stomping you just gave it, my brain’s run out of blood to hemorrhage, so it’s calling it reinforcements,” I mumble. When I finally get the blushing under control, I ask, “So do you think I’ll go to hell?”

Looking amused, Jade has downed another glass of wine. “Why, you think you’re special? I think you’ll rot in the ground just like everyone else,” Jade says smartly, refilling our glasses. If I am going to drive home tonight, he has _got_ to stop doing that.

“Jade Puget, I do not understand you,” I toast, lifting my glass. He mirrors the gesture with a strangely sad smile.

“Neither do I,” he says. “God, but neither do I.”

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	17. Jade

I don’t know what to feel. More importantly, I don’t know how. Since the first time Adam stayed, the night we drank wine and argued theology and shared a couch and a handful of Xanax, I’ve been going in circles.

Literal ones—California to Japan to New York to California, I’ve been crossing all seven seas. In the last two months, I’ve been on eighteen flights. The jet makes the commute more manageable, but not _that_ manageable. It is getting ridiculous. Jet lag is my natural state. I have trouble identifying what continent I’m on. I have too much work to think, but I can’t stop thinking, so I’ve given up sleep instead.

I can’t stop thinking about him. About Adam.

I could cut my total flight-time in thirds, if I could stop thinking about him. If I could stop flying to California to see him. It’s all very casual, under the pretense of checking in on the office, even though he’s got things well under control. Teleconferences would suit us just as well, and I could spend a lot more time in Kyoto, getting done what I need to do. But no matter what I tell everyone else, what I tell myself, the reason I keep coming home is to see Adam. At the office, I hang around and get in his way whenever I can find an excuse. I buy him lunch so he’ll have to eat with me. We talk for hours, and lulled into a false security by his voice, calm and warm and self-assured, I say things that I’ve never said out loud. I brought him a bottle of liquor from Kyoto so he’d have to drink with me, and he laughed and told me if I didn’t spend so much time abroad he’d never get any work done. If Marissa is out, I invite him for dinner, and for some reason he never says no. The way he is with Em is astonishing. I feel like I should take notes. He makes it look easy, and Emmanuel talks to him like they’re old friends. Usually I just stare until Em tells me I’m being a creep, and I’m glad he’ll say anything to me at all. Not having to see him every day makes me like the kid a lot more. Last time I was home, he invited me to his apartment, which is as nice as he said. We drank too much, because drinking is an excuse for talking the way we do, and he let me sleep on his couch. He was gone to the office before I woke up. It felt like college again, waking up on Isaac’s couch to find him already off with Annette or in class.

I recognized his throw pillows in an Ikea catalog, and I ordered a few for my couch in Kyoto. I haven’t opened the box yet. Until I can convince myself I wanted those pillows for any other reason than to remind me of Adam, I am not allowed to open the box. I’ve put it in the back of a closet, and I’m pretending it’s not there.

Today, I think, is Saturday, and I’m sprawled in the guest room at Isaac’s. We meet much more often now that Mercer International’s getting off the ground. It’s three a.m. New York time, according to the glaring red clock, and there is no way I can sleep. I’m not much of a sleeper to begin with. My internal clock has tendered its resignation. There have been too many time changes to keep up with.

When my phone rings, I leap out of bed. It’s true—I hope it’s Adam. There’s no way I can justify my mounting preoccupation with him, and it’s time to stop trying. I’ll ignore it instead. To me, he’s this extraordinary kid, bursting with potential. The thing is, I know he’s pretty average. We all are. Isaac is the only truly extraordinary person I’ve ever met, but for some reason, I just can’t shake Adam. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because for the first time in years, I have a friend who isn’t Isaac, who’s never kissed me and left me and broken my heart. Yeah—that might be it.

I squint at the phone number in the dark. My eyes won’t focus, but it’s too short a number to be a call from Japan, so with luck it’s not a business emergency.

“Jade Puget,” I answer, alert as instantaneously as I accept the call. Whoever it is won’t have the privilege of knowing they’ve caught me in bed. If no one catches you sleeping, who’s to stay you sleep at all? I’m still clinging to the more-than-mortal campaign.

“Yes, sweetheart, I know,” the voice of evil comes over the line. “Don’t you ever sleep? Unless you have company. Oh, I hope I’m not interrupting the first time you’ve gotten it up in years.”

It’s Marissa. Believe it or not, we haven’t been getting along very well lately. If you call the last sixteen years or so ‘lately’. You’d think she’d enjoy me being gone. _I_ certainly enjoy it. But she’s been more unpleasant and less predictable than ever before, these past few months. If I didn’t know better, I might think she missed me.

“I’m in New York,” I tell her. This is not relevant information. Other than hotly denying the fact I’m having sex, which is not a ringing personal endorsement, I’m not sure what to say.

“Aren’t you going to ask about your son?” she demands. Belatedly I realize one of the several topics I might have opened with is the mess of DNA we scraped together from the cutting room floor.

“Of course,” I lie immediately. “Those were the next words out of my mouth. How is he?”

“You are so full of shit,” my wife snarls. She’s known me for too long. “He got his cast off, I don’t know, a day or so ago. He’s fine.”

I’m still not sure why she’s called, but the mood she’s in makes me incredibly glad I’m on the opposite end of the country. “Have you been taking more pills than recommended, Iss? Because you sound a little—just a _little_ —bit ruffled. Why don’t you shove another Prozac down that scaly throat of yours, like a good girl?”

I’m provoking the beast. Picking fights with Marissa, especially when she’s like this, is something I’ve always made a point of avoiding. Seeing her so rarely should give me more patience for her, but it’s the opposite. The less of her shit I have to put up with, the less tolerance I have for even the littlest bit she throws my way. The Jade Puget I know would be grateful if all he had to deal with was a nasty tone of voice. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

“Logan just finished fucking me in your bed,” she spits. I guess I asked for it. “Is that what you want to hear, you soulless bastard?” Clearly, she’s acting out for attention, and it’s working. Just hearing the words makes me angry. It’s too early—or late—what the hell time zone am I in?—for this crap.

I need a drink is what I need. In Japan, it’s too early to start drinking. In New York, it’s too late. But in San Francisco, the time has never been better. I’ll pretend I’m there.

I decide to take Marissa’s approach and deal with this outburst by ignoring it. I let my tone drop a few degrees, but I don’t yell like she’s wanting. I’ve come to my senses. “I’ll make sure to burn the sheets when I get home,” I say calmly. _And write you out of my will, you pox-ridden whore._ “Is there anything else?”

There’s a long silence. I’m about to hang up when Marissa begins to sob. “J-Jade, I’m pregnant,” she hiccups.

Well, I probably wasn’t going to sleep much tonight anyway. “I’ll wake up the pilot,” I tell her. I manage not to sigh. “I’m on my way home.”

I hang up the phone. Looks like I’ll be having that drink on the plane.

 

 

When I get home, Emmanuel is sitting on the front steps. The first few fingers of dawn curl around the horizon, and instead of safe in bed, my son is on the front stoop with his head in his hands.

I have nothing clever to say in passing. I don’t know if it’s the earth-shattering words Marissa said or some paternal instinct I thought was dead and buried, if not mourned, but I can’t step over him like a stain in the rug for someone else to deal with, not this time. I sit down next to him. The concrete freezes into my ass, but November in the Bay beats November in New York by a long shot. I rub my hands together and wait. For what, I’m not sure, but I know it’s coming.

When Em finally lifts his head, his cheeks are wet and his nose is running, but his eyes are hard, fierce and brimming with loathing instead of tears. It’s clear that he’s wondering what the hell I’m doing on his stoop.

“Nice morning,” I say blandly. There’s a certain peace riding the cool air, and I don’t want to disturb it. I’d rather instill Em with the same. He’s not such a bad kid, my son. At least, that’s what everyone keeps telling me. I can’t say he’s made any particular effort to convert me to the belief.

“I hate you,” Emmanuel says. His voice is thick with mucus and spite.

I don’t doubt it. Why not? I hated my father. It’s possible I still do. Having not spoken to him in close to a year, it’s hard to say. Something like loathing welled up in me the last time I saw him, broken and tired and grey, pleading with the lawnmower and the scorched grass, just waiting for the end to descend upon his so he could rest. But deep bitterness and resentment aren’t the same as hatred. I can only hope that someday Em will feel the same for me. Isn’t hating me just part of adolescence? Besides, why should he like me? I’m never around. I’m not very nice when I am. I’ve given him every reason to hate me. Marissa and I both have. I realize for the first time that my son has every reason to be miserable, that privilege is not always, maybe not ever, enough. He’s still an ungrateful little bastard, but maybe I can’t blame him for it.

“I bet,” I agree, not trying to be snotty. “I’m not much of a father.” He hasn’t been much of a son, but why on earth would he be? We haven’t taught him to be, never expected him to be. All we’ve ever asked is that he stay well out of our way, which is not the same thing as parenting. Genevieve was an excellent _au pair_ , but that’s not enough. He’s our offspring, our product. Interviewing nannies was a bitch, but you are probably expected to put in at least a little more effort than that.

I’ve never thought of Issa and I as good parents, but this is the first time I’ve ever really given thought to how terrible we just might be.

Emmanuel’s loathing has grown more pronounced. He just stares at me. “I don’t _believe_ you,” my son says, disgust in his voice. “This is—this is just great. You think you can just walk in here and say that? ‘I haven’t been much of a father’? What, do you think that absolves you? Did you see it on the Hallmark channel or something? Do you think _it means a fucking thing_? Jesus Christ, Dad, that makes it worse! Can’t you just mean well, just be some oblivious idiot who doesn’t know any better, or maybe the heartless asshole we all know you wish you were who honest-to-God doesn’t give a fuck? Why do you have to sit there and tell me you _know_ what a shithead you are, and then think that just by admitting it you can make it go away?”

I wait patiently for him to finish. I know I should feel the things he’s saying, should hear them and be hurt. I wish they hurt. I wish they cut me to the quick. As usual, I feel nothing. My son would probably like me to apologize so he can yell some more, but I’m not interested in playing his game right now. Or, truthfully, ever.

“Looks like we’re both disappointments, then,” I say calmly. Emmanuel’s jaw drops. “What, are you shocked? I’m saying what you want to hear, aren’t I? You’re a huge fucking failure and I hate you right back. Just like you’ve always suspected, I’m not burning for your love. In fact, I don’t even want it. I _am_ that heartless monster, and I _don’t_ give a damn about you. There, I said it; so climb up on the altar and tell me how it feels. Let me make it easier for you, Em; we can build your cross together, like a fucking Boy Scout project, and I’ll help hold you up so they can hammer the nails in.”

There’s tears in his eyes again, fresh ones. I’m making him cry. I’m not sure if that’s what I meant to do or not. But now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. Refusing to play the game is not enough. I have to tear it to the ground and piss on all the pieces. Quitting is not enough. I have to destroy it.

No wonder he fucking hates me.

“Is that what you want to hear, Emmanuel? I didn’t come here to play games, _son_. I’m not a good father and not a good man; I get it. Believe it or not, you’re not the first to bring it to my attention, but bravo on the performance. Really, it was moving. Lots of people hate me, and it doesn’t make any goddamn difference to me if you’re one of them, but I don’t have time for this bullshit. Either you can tell me what’s wrong, why you’re out here crying, or this conversation can end and we’ll go inside and you can hate me till your little heart explodes. Dealer’s pick, Em.”

Should I make excuses? Here goes: it’s the stress, it’s the jet lag, I’ve been drinking instead of sleeping, he’s overdue for some tough love. It’s not any of that. No, I’ve simply had enough. He can hates me if he wants to, or he can choose otherwise. I’m not going to arm wrestle him for it. I don’t care who can piss the farthest.

“Do you really hate me?” he asks. His voice is quiet. He stares straight into my eyes, and I’m surprised to respect him for that. I knew he was an indolent brat; I didn’t think he was brave enough to stare me down, especially after the verbal beating I just gave him. I don’t think I know anyone who would meet my eyes after that. I’m pleased that my son has the mettle. I’m proud he’s not craven, proud he’s not soft. Proud he’s mine after all.

It’s a tired smile, but I let Em have it anyway. If I were Adam, I’d ruffle his hair, but I think that would be the last straw. For both of us. Instead, I just say what I’m reasonably sure is the truth. “Of course not, Em; you’re my son. I don’t hate you.”

Em thinks that over and seems to decide it’s okay. I’ve passed. “I was crying because Mom hit me. She’s yelling and she wouldn’t leave me alone, and… are you gay, Dad? Mom said you were.”

I didn’t expect that. Of all things, I never expected that. I thought I had a few years left before we were obligated to send him off to therapy so a fake doctor can pretend to fix him. “She told you that,” I say quietly, to myself. Of all things she could have told our son, why did that have to be it?

“She said she was pregnant and you’d never believe it was yours because you were gay and… I’m sorry, Dad, I wanted to be brave the way you always are, but I wasn’t. I came out here to hide, and I just… started crying,” Em says. He’s still staring earnestly into my eyes. His eyes, I always thought they were Marissa’s, but the longer I look the more I can only see my reflection. They’re grey, maybe, where mine are brown; but the look in them, the hollow mirror, that I recognize as mine. Ours. Maybe, despite all this, Em really is my boy.

“Don’t ever let her hit you again, Em,” I tell him. I haven’t got any words of comfort, don’t know how to begin denying what she’s said, have no idea how to fix him short of paying someone else to do it. If he really is my boy, he’ll understand. It takes more than genes to be a Puget. We aren’t baseborn anymore; there is a hard dignity, a bitter cruelty, and a hell of a fight that comes with the Puget name, the Puget blood. And if it’s in Emmanuel, I’ll be proud to call the little bastard my son, my full-blooded son. I’ll be proud that he’s the start of our new line. “Don’t let _anyone_ hit you. You’re a Puget. That means something now.”

My son studies me carefully, like he’s memorizing the lines of my face. I put my hand on his shoulders. It’s the boldest gesture I’ll risk. Em does me the honor of enduring my touch. He doesn’t even flinch. I would have flinched.

“Dad, I don’t know how to fight,” he says, very seriously. I have never seen so solemn a boy. “I can speak French and play the piano and paint a sunset that will make people cry, but I can’t fight.”

The truly fatherly thing to do would be to teach him how to fight, but I haven’t raised a hand to anyone in years. “So run,” I say, regurgitating the modified _Art of War_ for his benefit. “Fight your battles intellectually. You can hit an enemy, and maybe he’ll bleed, but the cut will heal. If you get him under the skin, _beyond_ the body where it doesn’t show, that wound could fester forever.”

“Like internal bleeding,” Emmanuel says. “Emotional hemorrhages.”

I take my hand back and try to smile. I am just not comfortable with this male bonding shit. I feel small, cornered, out of place. I clear my throat “No matter how you fight, Emmanuel, if anyone ever hits you, make sure you hit them back. You and me, we’re going to make this name of ours means something. I can’t do that by myself.”

This, of course, it blatantly untrue. I can do it by myself. I _have_ done it by myself. But one generation of greatness—or, okay, mild to extraordinary success—doesn’t mean a thing if my son pisses it all away. Besides, it sounds nice, and for once in my life I have said the right thing. I can tell because Em’s mouth curls into the slightest smile and he says, “Dad? I don’t really hate you. Not like all of the time or anything.”

I get to my feet and brush off the back of my pants. I pick up my small duffel and say, “It’s okay, Emmie.” I’m not trying to make him feel better; it really is okay. But the calm the morning air infused in me is being overrun with all the mixed-up emotion my son’s trying to his hardest to evoke, and after this little disaster even dealing with my knocked-up wife doesn’t sound too terrible. I think he’s finished crying, so I’ve answered the call of paternal duty, and I’m free to escape. I glance over my shoulder at him, but he’s still watching the sunrise battle the smog, and I’m happy to leave him to it.

No sooner has the door closed behind me than I realize an eternity of touch love with Emmie would have been a better choice. I know this because my crystal decanter of exorbitantly priced scotch explodes not two inches from my head. Glass shards and liquor rain over me. The scotch burns like acid in the numerous tiny cuts the crystal rakes into my skin. My new suit, charcoal grey and even more expensive than the scotch, is soaked, snagged, ruined. Marissa stands defiantly next to the sideboard, hands shaking at her sides. I drop my bag and my coat to the floor to soak up what’s left of my scotch, and lose it. I snap.

I’m hardly aware of the motions. The world is a dull blur. I move across the room and slap my loving wife across the face, harder than I have any right to.

She crumples to the ground like a doll and her rage dissolves into tears. She covers her red cheek with both hands and weeps. Her negligee falls open and a nipple slips out. She is laughably vulnerable, totally pathetic, but I don’t laugh. I’m dimly aware of yelling.

“Every time you strike our son, I promise to do the same to you,” I hear from far away. I sound so angry, so very loud, but as if underwater. It’s not an out-of-body experience, but it’s close. I would never hit Marissa. I would never hit my wife. “If you’re drunk, Marissa, tell me right now, because I will throw you out of this house and buy off the jury if you are. You’ve always been a selfish bitch but you’re carrying some poor fool’s child and you will not—you will NOT—destroy some innocent life under my roof, is that clear?”

Marissa is crying almost too hard to get words out. Sociopath that I am, I feel no remorse. I feel no… anything. “I-I’m not drinking, I haven’t even been taking my pills—Jade, please, y-you’re scaring me!”

The part of me that’s still tame comes back to me, and I’m living in real time again, up close, for real. Serenity possesses me and my mind becomes as black and perfect as my white room, and I sink to my knees to be near her. She flinches when I reach for her but allows herself to be pulled across my lap, to lean on my chest. I hold her and she cries. Blood stings my left eye and runs down from my arms. I see the glitter of crystal deep in my palm. It burns as I stroke her hair.

I lay a hand to the bulge under her negligee. The silk strains over her abdomen, swollen with life. Marissa slaps the hand away.

“It’s too late to kill it,” Marissa sobs. “I didn’t… I couldn’t do it alone. There were these fucking Catholics… they had signs. I don’t have anyone but you, and I couldn’t kill it, and now it’s too late. It’s mine, this stupid fucking thing is _mine_ , and you’re too late to take it away.”

I wait out her hysterics, holding her close to my chest. She can’t keep up the tears forever, so I wait. Finally her sobbing slows and she asks, “What do I do, Jade?”

She’s asking because I have always known. Well, I still do. I kiss the side of her head, her silky hair. Maybe it’s penitence for my outburst, but what I hear myself saying horrifies me. It’s not what I want, not what she wants. It’s the worst possible solution—and the words come anyway.

“What _we’ll_ do, Iss. We’ll keep it, of course. Give it a good home—maybe do a better job than we did with Em.”

Her mascara is on her cheeks, one of which is red and puffy, and she sniffles. “You—you aren’t leaving me?”

Sometimes I wonder if my wife knows a single thing about me. The one thing she should know is that I’m not ever going to leave her. I would’ve thought that was obvious by now. “Absolutely not,” I say. It’s the right thing. “I do love you, Issa, as difficult at that is to believe.” _For both of us._

Marissa breaks down again. “I-I’m sorry I threw the scotch at you,” she wails.

I kiss her head again. “Let’s not say we’re sorry, okay? There’s a lot of things we should have done differently. Maybe this baby is a second chance. We’ll tell everyone it’s ours and, well—we’ll start over. How does that sound?”

“We can baptize this one if you want,” Marissa tells me. I want to laugh, but she won’t understand why it’s funny.

Instead I start rubbing her back again and say, “Whatever makes you happy, Iss. We’ll do whatever makes you happy.”

I say it like I mean it, and I almost do. Like so much in my life, I almost do.

  
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	18. Adam

I hate the new apartment.

I hate the things that fill it: a motley of Swedish practicality and flair, and overpriced flourishes. I hate how perfect it is, how immaculate and lovely, unlived in, untouched. I’ve tried making little messes to thaw the place, but turns out I hate those too. It is quiet and it is cold and all the nice things in the world cannot fill it, and the hate that I was happier with nothing.

When I had nothing, I had everything. I had Hunter.

The first month, I didn’t miss him. I ate what I chose and slept when I wanted and stayed up half the night shopping online, buying extravagant things he’d have hated for _my_ apartment. Everything I picked would have been perfect to rub his face in, if the odd sequence of events that would lead him to the new apartment I never got to tell him existed ever occurred. For example, if he hired a private detective to follow me home from work.

The second month, I started to get lonely. I went back to cleaning instead of sleeping, to squinting at a book until my eyes wouldn’t focus and the sun came up, calling coffee REM. I thought I should maybe get a cat or something, but I didn’t want one. Hunter used to bring in strays all the time. I can’t stand the smell of cat piss.

The third month has dawned and I dread leaving the office. I sit at my desk and concern myself with the financial quagmire of Mercer International. If I slept, I’m sure I’d muter exchange rates while I dozed. Stock exchanges, dollars and yen; I bury myself in numbers for the first part of the day. I emerge just before lunch to drop a sheaf of paper for Susan to fax, a list of phone calls for her to make. I eat lunch with Aaron Teasdale. The Dorsinger debacle is ancient history, but we’ve become what could easily be mistaken for friends. After lunch, I meet with Dan in accounting and waste some time mulling over spreadsheets and playing fantasy baseball. After Dan, I pick up the newspapers from Ellen and sit through the daily meeting with the publicists. I go back into my office and review client accounts. I take phone calls and meet with clients. I compose newsletters for the shareholders. Once the sit-downs are done with, I delegate the new contracts and check up on the progress of existing accounts. From time to time, I sit in on a presentation and draft a performance review, which Susan finalizes and types up. When there’s a board meeting, I show up and go through the motions. When there’s a publicity event, usually a benefit, I put on a smile and give the papers their quotes. I stay busy throughout office hours and, once nearly everyone has left, I start my real work, the part I enjoy. I stay late and churn out story boards, finalize ideas and send them along the line to film or graphics—floors twelve and fifteen, respectively. I stay in the office as long as I possibly can. I wait until I’ve exhausted every thought in my head, till I’ve paced the darkened halls at least three times, till the nighttime janitorial crew comes in. That’s when I give up and go home.

There are two reasons I stay so long, two reasons I linger like the ghost I am. One is that I hate how empty my apartment is, how dark and quiet and cold, the transient lassitude it fills me with; and the other is that sometimes, every now and again, when Jade stays later at work than I ever have, or if he’s been drinking, the phone will ring and it will be him, tinny and so many miles away. He’ll call from Japan at odd hours of the night, to see if I’ve stayed late. Sometimes he scolds me for working too hard; other times he sounds glad I’m not out having fun with god knows who. I know it’s not much, but it’s him reaching out. I know it is.

We’ll talk for five minutes or we’ll talk for an hour, it doesn’t matter. It’s the days I hear his voice that I can sleep. It’s the days he says my name like he’s smiling that I go home and love the way my life’s become, when I know I’m not alone, only that he’s away.

Today it’s Tuesday morning. I’m on my first cup of coffee, so the numbers on the computer screen are still flat and lifeless. Instead of working, I’m trying to recall Hunter’s laugh, the particular way he’d smile before he’d kiss me. I’m trying as hard as I can to miss him, to feel hurt and longing well up in me till I have to choke it down. The fact that I can’t is frightening. I’m not cold stone, not in this moment; I’m feeling plenty. Loss and longing are every part of what I feel—but what scares me, what I’m trying to outrun, is that it’s not Hunter.

When did it stop being Hunter? I don’t know. It’s all a blur. I envision Hunter for a moment, intending to twist the knife in my heart, and one smile melts into another. I can’t keep Hunt in my head, and when I can, the knife won’t even budge for his face. I can’t dwell on him anymore. All I want is to wallow, but I can’t. It’s maddening.

So I sit there and I try to break my heart, to tear open that old wound because it’s healing much too quickly. Getting over Hunter, I am all about. But getting over Hunt just to fall in love with my absentee—not to mention completely unattainable—boss? Oh, there is just no way I am going to let that happen.

I decide I need to go to counseling. Shrinks are notorious for dredging up buried emotional trauma that is preoccupying enough to control your every thought and ruin your life. That’s what I want. I want my head messed up so bad, addled with painful childhood memories, that I won’t be able to feel a thing for Jade. And, if that fails, the other thing shrinks are good for is their prescription pad. I’ve just had my heart broken in the worst possible way, and I’m in one of the most psychologically tolling lines of work there is: extremely competitive and based on deceit, it’s an emotional trauma cocktail. I’ve earned nice full bottle of emptiness just by holding out so long.

I’m starting to think I’m losing it. Every morning, I tell myself I’m leaving at five and fuck the phone call; but every time the phone rings and it’s Jade, I find myself here answering. But it’s still early enough that I can still delude myself into thinking today is not one of those days, when I hear his voice.

“Are you daydreaming again, Carson?” he asks coldly, and I spin in my chair with a smile on my face. It’s a reflex that I’m powerless to stop, but it doesn’t bother me right now, even if I’ll be marching in the self-loathing parade later. Jade’s here. Nothing else matters.

“Aren’t you a hard-ass,” I complain happily, having another sip of coffee. Personally, I’m pretty impressed I haven’t squealed with joy. It’s been nine days since I last saw him—only nine days. But I’m filling with warmth, the empty ache within me bloated with feeling. The lines in his face have grown deeper, but there’s a familiar fire in his eyes, bleeding with grey. His curls are getting longer, sloppy; I’m taken by the sudden urge to put my hands in them. He stands above me, tall and proud and broad, and he lets a smile touch his pale lips.

“Hello, Adam,” he says, with warmth this time. He says my name and I feel it—what I don’t feel in my apartment, what I don’t feel when I think of Hunter, what I don’t feel at all when he’s not here. It’s warm and cloying and thick enough to choke on, and in that moment, in that feeling, I’m finally home.

“Hey, Jade,” I answer, fighting to keep the sudden rush of sentimentality from my voice. I feel less empty when he’s here, and god but I hate it. God, but he’ll never know.

Jade’s smile spreads into a full grin and he sits on the edge of my desk. I can’t help but notice how nice his ass looks. Say what you will for Brioni, the man makes a fine suit. Jade’s not just tall, he’s so big it’s ungodly; the pants are hand-tailored and you can tell. Forget the panoramic stretched outside my office; Jade’s perched on the shining wood, one Louboutin-clad foot under him, in brown and dusky green, and _this_ is a view. From where I’m sitting, the Golden Gate isn’t worth pissing off of.

I’m blushing again. But if there’s anything the last few months have taught me, it’s that my blood could be doing worse things than turning my face red.

Jade’s talking, telling me about his flight. I’m lost in the low murmur, its reluctant warmth caressing me. He asks about business and my lassitude evaporates.

“Is it too much for you to handle, Carson?” he asks, playful. I know how scary Jade can be. It’s always strange to see him relaxed and happy. Truth be told, he looks older than ever. Silvery hairs are showing up in his unruly roan, and his eyes are weary. Every time I look into them, the fire is a little closer to burning out, and I want to throw myself at his feet and beg to feed it. Use my body, I want to say; take my flesh and shale and throw it into the dying fire. I promise, I will burn for you.

I want to tell him that I’m worried about him, beseech him to take at least a few days off work and air travel. But that would break the guy code, the one where you don’t speak about your feelings, ever, on pain of death, and so far I haven’t thought of a way to say it without him thinking I’m concerned about his well-being on a personal level. Our friendship is a shy and tentative creature. I don’t want to spook it. I have a lot of inclinations I’ll never act on, but he is still my only friend. I don’t want to lose that with a silly thing like concern.

That is, at least, what I am willing to admit to myself. I’m still fighting to suppress the rest. What I do say to Jade is, “Handle? They’re trying to give me your office. I have to keep turning it down. The board hopes you’ll never come back, they like me so much better. They say I’m the younger, better-looking version of you.”

“I’m sure,” Jade says, struggling to suppress his smile in vain. I know it’s there. “But how are _you_ holding up without me?”

That’s a loaded question if I’ve ever heard one. I’m not. I’ve been miserable, of course. Everything is a blur when you’re not here. I’m great at this job but I just don’t know how to be without you. All I see is grey. I need you, so stay. Stay with me and don’t ever go away again.

Even thinking that is too honest for me. I’d rather eat the muzzle of a gun than say it out loud. Even so, what I end up saying is not so very far from the truth.

“If I say I can’t handle it, will you stay a while?”

Jade finally lets his smile show. It runs from ear to ear and I’m forced to add great teeth to the list of reason I can’t stop thinking about my entirely off-limits boss. He waves his hand, dismissing my plea and hearing what he wants to. “So you _are_ having trouble running this place on your own,” he decrees cheerfully, pleased with himself and not hiding it.

I’m serious now, though. I rap my knuckles on the desk to get his attention. “You need a break, Jade,” I tell him, as honestly as I can, trying to force my sincerity into my voice so he’s persuaded. No sooner have I said it, though, than his smile starts to slip, and I can’t keep up my serious tone. I don’t want to fight today. I just want to see him smile. I add quickly, “Grey hairs,” and widen my eyes, gesturing towards his head.

Jade scowls, but I know he’s glad I’ve given him the opportunity to brush this one off, too. I bite down on my sigh before it gets out. “Besides, I miss you,” is barely out of my mouth before Satan himself walks in.

“I thought I smelled brimstone,” I say nastily to Davey, who is looking particularly evil today in a pressed black suit with a burnt orange shirt underneath. It brings out the malice in his eyes, and if Jade weren’t here, I’d tell him that. I’m not so much playing nice as pretending to be mature for Jade’s benefit. I can always tell Davey later. He sneers at me before straightening his suit jacket and putting on his professional face. We are actors in a well-oiled play. We bring the part of colleagues to life as easily as playing another role.

“Mr. Puget, if I could request a private audience,” he keens, voice greasy. When Jade is not around, Beezlebub steers clear of me, fearing my new authority as well as exorcism. Little does he know, under the crisp layers of Jade’s immaculate closing, even his safety net wears a gold cross. When Jade _is_ around, Davey does his best to sabotage any quality time we could possibly have. Say one thing for pure molten evil, say he’s a clever bastard.

Jade looks at Davey, and his face is polite, but vacant. “Surely it can wait,” he demurs, a little too quickly to be a suggestion. “Adam and I are in the middle of something.”

Because I am a child, it is incredibly difficult not to stick my out my tongue at my rival. That I choose to restrain myself at all deserves a fucking medal. Davey’s face falls when Jade dismisses him, and to call it a personal victory would be putting it lightly. There is just something about Davey that brings out the competitive ass in me. I don’t know what it is. Maybe the fact that he tried to deliberately sabotage my whole career, or that everyone in the photography department still refers to me as ‘the pimp’, or that he is a simpering ball of living piss, or that every time I look at him I just want to kill myself and everyone else so no one ever has to breathe the same air as him again. Actually, I can think of a couple of things.

Of course, all that is water under the bridge. Forgive and forget, that’s what we say. We’re actually so close now that we’ve even come up with this cute little game, where every time I see him I make him do the things a _real_ assistant would do—like make a new pot of coffee because the other one has had fifteen minutes to get stale, and then bring me a cup, pick up my dry-cleaning, send my mom flowers, get things from the old apartment for me on a Saturday, and feed my cat while I’m out of town for a conference and spend a full hour looking for the cat before I remember I don’t have one. Funny stuff like that. It’s such a laugh I hardly ever see him anymore. Ever. If we didn’t have so much fun together, I might think he was avoiding me.

Say one thing for Adam Carson, say he holds grudges like a son of a bitch.

“Davey, while you’re in here, I could use a fresh coffee,” I call out just before he escapes. Of course, he’s just gotten me some and the mug I’m holding is still ninety percent full, so I lift a little box of paperclips out of my every-supply-you-can-think-of drawer and upend it into the mug. It’s very subtle. “This one’s no good. Also, I think I’m out of paperclips; run downstairs and get me some more. I prefer the little colored ones, of course.”

You can hear him grinding his teeth from across the room. But he flashes us a tight smile and runs off to do my bidding, seizing my ruined coffee almost violently. I know for a fact we have no colored paperclips down in our warehouse. I won’t use them, of course, they’re unprofessional. I’m just curious to see if he’ll use his lunch break to buy me some paperclips at the closest Staples, or if I’ll get to yell at him for failing me.

Some days, the best thing about my job is that I can fire his ass if I see fit.

This is not actually one of those days. Today, Jade is here, and he’s raising his eyebrows at me. “Since when has my charming assistant become your bitch?”

I smile so sweetly my teeth start to rot. “Oh, that? He’s just such a sweet guy, I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

 

 

Jade soon makes it clear I’ll be getting no work done today. He’s too serious about his job to actually forbid me to accomplish anything, but every time I get close to even starting one of my project he intercoms me to ask if we can blow off the board meeting and or what I feel like for lunch of if I want to meet him in the creative space for a MarioKart face-off. He’s like a twelve-year-old hopped up on Pixie Sticks with ADD. I have never seen him so damn antsy before.

We’re camped out in his office eating take-out and I finally ask. I point at him with a chopstick. “ _You_ are acting weirder than usual,” I inform him. “What’s on your mind?”

Jade wipes his mouth on a several-thousand-dollar sleeve. The part of me Hunter did his best to kill winces.

“Well, about a month ago, Iss told me she was pregnant,” Jade says, his mouth full. He is remarkably less composed than usual. I feel like I should take that and run with it, but I don’t know how. I’ve already heard the pregnant news, though. It was a dramatic headline in its day, but it has run its course. He showed up at my door, reeking of scotch, at sunrise. For some unknowable reason, the doorman decided he was a savory character and let him in. I just don’t feel safe in that building anymore. Jade was totally hysterical. He bled on my couch. It was not the kind of night you ever forget. He’s calmed down about it by now. Aside from thinking that his wife is a very, very pretty whore, I haven’t had much of a reaction, other than envy. I’ve tried very hard not to feel pity. Pity will not benefit their unborn child. “And since I’m going to be a dad _again_ , I thought I could try it a little with my first kid,” Jade’s saying. That he’s talking about Emmanuel in pleasant tones is pretty amazing in itself, but it doesn’t tell me why he’s being so odd today. Maybe all the jet lag has made him snap like a twig, or all the air pressure has compressed his brain. I developed this suspicion when I got a phone call in the dead of night. He called me from the plane to ponder whether or not flying from California to Japan constituted as time travel, since he arrived before he’d left. Apparently flight attendants lack the good sense to cut people off when they’ve clearly had too much to drink, I don’t know. Anyway, that was a little over a week ago, and I’ve been questioning his mental well-being ever since.

“Don’t tell me you’re joining Boy Scouts together” I say. Jade’s amber eyes are fixed on me intently. I wonder how long I let my mind wander before I responded.

“I’m taking him to Japan,” Jade says, so seriously it’s possible he’s joking.

“You’re kidding,” I prompt. Don’t get me wrong, _I_ think Emmanuel is great. Jade usually tried to gut him with his salad fork. “You’ll kill him before take-off.”

“Not so,” Jade insists. He doesn’t seem to see how bad an idea this is, but to me it’s obvious. Father-son bonding, that’s a good thing, but Jade and Emmanuel aren’t father and son, not really. “I bought him an iPod so we won’t have to talk.”

I just look at him. “What is the point,” I ask slowly, “of volunteering for a bonding experience if you don’t plan on _talking_ to him?”

Jade frowns. “I’m sensing you disapprove. I thought you’d be happy.”

The air in the office is getting a little hard to breathe. “Far be it from me to give you parenting advice,” I backpedal, “but maybe this is something you should ease into.”

“I want to get him away from his mother,” Jade says as if I haven’t spoken. His voice sounds dead. “I want to show him the empire he stands to inherit, if he wants it. And maybe I want him to like me, just a little bit, so he won’t feel replaced by this bastard of his mother’s.” Jade hesitates before adding, “And for me. I’m starting to think that maybe I haven’t always done the right thing by Emmie.”

“And that actually bothers you?” I ask. I am legitimately surprised. That is a big step for him. Jade hates his son. I know this. Everyone knows this. Jade has done everything in his power to stay as far away as possible from his family. Why would he throw himself back into the fray when he is so close from getting away entirely? Marissa having another man’s child gives him pretty good grounds for divorce, even in the eyes of God, and I doubt sentimentality is his driving force. I’m about to accuse him of going soft when Jade speaks, stops everything.

“No,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, “but I think it bothers you. And for some godless reason, that keeps me up at night.”

I keep Jade Puget up at night? I don’t know what to say to that. Or, more accurately, all the things I want to say try to run out of my mouth all at once, like ten people trying to fit out the same doorway at the same instant, and they’re stuck. I’m left with parted lips and no words upon them.

Jade laughs to himself in a humorless way. “You think I’ve really lost it now, don’t you? Of all the things I could worry about, it’s what some guy from the office thinks of my relationship with my son that gets me.” He shrugs, unaware of how much his wording stings. “But that, I suppose, is the beauty of the human mind. It completely refuses to adhere to any logic whatsoever.” He turns to me, fishing a peapod of out of his take-out box with his chopsticks. For a man living in Japan, he is not very slick with the chopsticks. “What’s yours turning up?” he asks, presumably meaning my own highly illogical mind.

Because it’s easier, because it’s safer, because I can’t tell the truth, I lie. I say lightly, “I’m a little offended you’re inviting the son you can’t stand to see the new office, before the guy from your office who gives you moral qualms.”

Jade’s so used to be being honest that he believes me without hesitating. That makes me feel a little bad for lying, but today’s Adam Carson is a practical man. He has lied, and he will lie again, if it is necessary. Guilt hasn’t got a chance next to that.

“I hadn’t looked at it that way,” Jade concedes, scratching his unsuspecting chin with a chopstick. “We’re going two weeks from now,” he tells me. “Em’s out of school for the religiously unaffiliated winter holidays. If you haven’t got any plans, it would be enormously less painful if you’d accompany us. Maybe I can ever get Isaac to fly out for a day or so to see the place. It’ll be like a thing.”

“Oh, right, a thing.” Instead of leaping out of my chair and sprinting twenty-three blocks home to pack, I stay calm. I look up and to the left, as if trying to envision my schedule. “I’m not sure,” I say, lying again already. “I’m trying to remember if I have a good excuse to get out of father-son bonding week.”

Jade scowls at me. Though he doesn’t know the reasons, he knows I want to come. He grabs his phone and dials Susan’s extension. “Yes, Mr. Puget,” she answers calmly.

“Susan, clear Mr. Carson’s schedule from the eleventh through the nineteenth of December. He’s going on a business trip,” he tells her, giving me his I-am-God smirk. Once Susan is off the line, he invites, “Well, check your datebook. If you haven’t got anything planned, Em and I both would love it if you would come.”

There are a hundred explanations for the euphoria welling up in me. I’ve never left the country before; I’m rising in the company; I’ll get to see Japan and meet important execs, maybe even Isaac Mercer himself; this could make my career. But none of those are it.

I stare across the cherry wood at the only explanation and fight the dread, equal only to the joy, that is rising in my gut. This time, I know for sure. I am in way over my head.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	19. Emmanuel

It is the best day of my life.

I’m in the boy’s bathroom on the third floor, which is sort of a strange location for your defining moment, but I’m not complaining. Besides, it’s the only bathroom in the whole school where the smoke detector doesn’t work. Bobby Bragg passes me his cigarette, instead of flicking the ashes at me like usual. I take a drag and don’t cough, because Scott and I have been practicing. I pass the bitter thing to Scott, who sucks some of it in kind of clumsily, and all three of us exhale at the same time. Bobby says it’s better than a handshake. Secretly, me and Scott call it the ‘smoke oath’. We consider it so sacred it’s almost holy. Bobby’s last name might as well be Christ for all the elegance and dignity of him.

He spits a big fat ball of phlegm onto the ground. Scott gives the cigarette back and he drops it in a toilet. He hands me three hundred dollars in worn twenty dollar bills, and I give it to Scott to count. We practiced this too, mostly by watching all the movies about drugs we could find. A list of those movies: The Usual Suspects, Trainspotting, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Requiem for a Dream. In the end though, the first one wasn’t actually about drugs. Scott’s dad rented them for us. He wasn’t even suspicious, which is a little bit insulting, because I am not _that_ much of a loser. I hope. Layer Cake was my favorite. A secret about Scott is that, when we watched Blow, he cried. Anyway, if you can count, that’s six movies entirely about drugs, so we’re pretty much professionals.

Scott nods and says, “It’s good.” That means all the money is there. We practiced in the mirror before Bobby got here. I’m skipping math class for this. It’s not that I need the money. It’s that a guy like Bobby Bragg has never spoken to me before, unless you count screaming ‘faggot’ when I walk by. Today he shared his cigarette with me. That’s pretty cool.

I toss the bottle of pills to Bobby. He snatches it out of the air, and I’m really part of something for a second.  
Bobby nods. “You got more where these came from, Manny?” he asks me, and he doesn’t say Manny like it’s this derogatory term, but maybe like a nickname, like it’s kind of cool.

I think about it. Mom’s medicine cabinet is so full, bottles spill out when you open it, circling the drain. There are more, lined up like orange soldiers around the sink. Mom won’t miss them. Besides, if she knew how unpopular I am, she’d probably give me heroin to sell. She was the perfect cheerleader queen extraordinaire or something when she was in high school. I think she thinks I’m the same, except with fewer skirts.

I nod, and Bobby nods back. It’s very macho silent communication. I am such a badass. Bobby pockets the pills and Scott pockets the money. We need leather jackets. Sunglasses and leather jackets.

“Keep in touch,” I say, raising my eyebrows and trying to be suave. It’s like my dad said. I’m a Puget, and I’m going to make that mean something. Scott and I saunter out of the bathroom like cowboys leaving a saloon. Once we round the corner, we stop. Scott gives me this huge grin.

“You are such a badass, Em!” he says, forgetting to act cool. Even though that is exactly what I was thinking, I don’t forget. I’ve got my scars and my three hundred dollars and I even ditched a class. I feel very brave, and I’ve never felt like that before.

“If we are going to keep doing this, we need sunglasses,” I tell him. I decide to keep the leather jacket part to myself for now. Scott looks kind of excited. I guess we’re drug traffickers now. The movies are about _us_. What we decide to do is sneak out of school and ditch the rest of our classes, so we can buy sunglasses. We are professional bad-asses. It’s only a matter of time till we’re stuffing corpses with needle drugs and smuggling them across the border. Of course, we’ll need driver’s licenses first, so I’m not too worried.

 

 

It’s like all of a sudden coming to school in a Mercedes is cool. Maybe it’s the sunglasses, or the iPod from Dad, or the fact that living the pimp life (as Scott calls it) is actually pretty popular when you sell drugs.

I actually go to math class today. I don’t bother too much anymore, now that I know how easy it is not to. My grade has dropped a lot. Actually, most of my grades have dropped a lot. I have a B minus average now, but today in class a kind of pretty girl, like mostly pretty, with two soft brunette braids sits in the desk next to me. Usually it’s a boy named Cody who sits there. His nose runs all over everything, which is why nobody talks to him. I thought she must be pretty brave to sit in Snotty’s desk.

“I’m Kenton,” she says. Her lips are really, really nice. She puts down her books and for the first time you can see her boobs. Even through the sweater, they are very extremely large. It’s almost frightening. Her sweater is pale blue and looks soft and I want to touch it, and probably wouldn’t mind touching under it either. Kenton’s eyes are kind of hazel-green, and she smiles shyly. Her breasts are less shy. They gnaw at the muzzle of her bra and try to break free. I picture the headline: Local Boy Killed In Boob Avalanche. Even in the afterlife I do not think I could live that down.

I lean back a little bit, just to be safe. “I’m Emmanuel,” I tell her. My mouth is a desert because all of the moisture from my tongue has gone to my palms. Nothing has every sweated so profusely as my palms while Kenton talks to me. Because I do not trust her breasts not to kill me, it is very hard not to look at them.

Kenton actually giggles, like maybe my name is a great joke. Which is actually a very accurate way of looking at things. She leans closer and it is hard not to run in terror from her cleavalanche. I am going to be bludgeoned to death if she leans any closer to me.

“I know,” she whispers, like it’s a joke. “I think I need help studying for the next test, and I know you’re _really_ smart, so I was wondering…?”

Apparently that’s a complete sentence or something, because Kenton stops talking. I want to tell her I don’t know what’s going on either because I keep missing class, but even I know that’s the wrong thing to say. “Sure, I’ll help you study,” I tell her. That’s the right thing to say. She must be a sophomore or a junior or something. None of the freshman girls have boobs like hers. I don’t say that out loud, either.

Kenton puts her hand on my arm and squeezes, and I about faint. “That is so cool of you,” she whispers. I guess it’s a secret, because otherwise we’d be talking in normal voices. I remember when my first-grade teacher would say, “Use your six-inch voices” even though first graders don’t know what six inches is. When I think about Miss Maple, she’s always sitting on her desk wearing high heels, and when she crosses her long, long legs you can see up her skirt. I try to imagine Kenton telling me to use my six-inch voice, but no matter how big her breasts are she will never be as sexy as Miss Maple, who I knew at six was probably my soul mate because there was no one more beautiful, even if she did have a mole on her cheek.

Kenton, who I am a little defensive about never being as sexy as Miss Maple, is still talking to me. She smells nice, very clean, a little bit like strawberries. “Want to meet me in the lobby after school? I can like drive you to my house if that’s okay?”

Scott and I were going to play video games today, because football season is finally over and he has free time again. We were also going to practice dealing drugs some more, and maybe watch a movie about it or something. We are saving up for leather jackets. But he has Megga and anyway, maybe I could have Kenton. I know his head would just explode if he could see how large her boobs are, and besides she can drive. Scott will probably understand, by which I mean he will probably kill me if I say no.

I tell myself that her breasts are probably not rabid and that I will be safe, and then I try to sound breezy. “Oh, yeah, that sounds great.” She seems to believe me. She gives me this huge pretty grin, and she has dimples, which make her look nicer.

“Thanks,” she says, getting out of Cody Snot’s desk. He’s standing behind her, waiting for his seat and sniffling all over everything. I wish he would just buy some Kleenex or _something_ , he’s an embarrassment. He is too shy to speak. I am not even kidding, Kenton winks at me before she slides into her own desk. She _winks_. Only Cody Snot sees, but it’s better than no one. He looks like he’s maybe going to have a heart attack, and we both know at the same time that I am suddenly much cooler than him, and he instantly becomes too shy to talk to me, either.

My arm is starting to tingle where Kenton squeezed it. I am so happy I think I might be dead.

Mrs. Zott, whose old lady underwear shows up through her pants, shuffles into the classroom to ruin my mood. She is about three hundred years old, and is shaped like a snake that swallowed an egg whole. No one in the world has a bigger butt. She is as mean as she is old, and up until recently I was a thousand times smarter than she was, no matter how belittling she is to anyone who asks a question. I was always raising my hand to show her what mistakes she made, which made her hate me almost as much as everyone else in class, because I was always right. Like that’s a crime or something. Today I am so rapt that I almost start to understand the class again. I have to figure this stuff out before Kenton asks me any questions about it, because at this point understanding math is the only reason she likes me, as far as I can tell. The selling drugs thing is probably only fortuitous timing, because otherwise she would have just asked someone else. Mrs. Zott seems to know how hard I’m trying, because she picks today to be even more useless than usual. She tells us about a turtle who walked so slowly he could only cross half the room in a day and how math tells us he’d never reach the other side, and I really don’t get that. It sounds like lies to me. But I think most of math is probably based on lies, like everything else, so I let it slide.

 

 

Scott is waiting for me in the lobby after school, which is where I’m supposed to meet Kenton. What, are we the Bobbsey twins or something? Do we have to do _everything_ together? I mean, I’m trying to look cool. By clinging to me like some kind of creepy Siamese twin, he’s kind of ruining the image, which is a total sham anyway. I mean, it’s a hard façade to keep up. I don’t need him making it harder.

“I can’t hang out today,” I say real fast. I want to finish the conversation before Kenton finds me, realizes I am a total loser, and sics her massive rack on someone else. _I_ want to be the cleavalanche victim, not someone else.

“We made plans!” Scott protests, like he’s my wife or something. It figures. He can totally shun me for Megga whenever he feels like it, but if _I_ have plans it’s suddenly I violation of like sacred vows.”

“It’s really important,” I say, which is not totally a lie. I mean, we’ve been over her boobs.

“Is it your dad?” Scott whines, kind of sulking. Why does he want to hang out with me so badly all of a sudden? It’s not like _he’s_ a total loser. Doesn’t he have some butch football friends he can play grab-ass with? It’s almost like he knows I’m blowing him off for a less-than-legit (legit is a very drug-dealer thing to say) reason, and he wants to make me feel as guilty as possible.

“Yeah,” I lie, and before I can even feel bad, I spot Kenton across the lobby. “See you later!” I blurt at Scott, and kind of jog over to her, diving through a crowd of huge backpacks so maybe he’ll lose sight of me.

“Hi, Emmanuel,” Kenton says kind of shyly. She has a book bag instead of a backpack, which is much cooler, and a navy blue peacoat. She is prettier every time I look at her, I swear. Her keys are on a UCLA lanyard, and they jingle when she swings them a little. “You ready to go?”

Before I can even say yes, she grabs my hand and practically drags me through the lobby. I almost run over Bobby Bragg, and I guess it makes him really mad because his clenches his fists and glares at me like I’m Mothra and he’s Godzilla. We’re out the doors before he gets a chance to roar, and I hope I get to see Tokyo before he destroys it.

“That was a close one,” Kenton says, which makes absolutely no sense unless she imagined Bobby as Godzilla too, or she can read my mind. I hope that is not it. I’ve thought about her boobs way too many times not to die of embarrassment for being a huge pervert if she can read my thoughts. To confuse her, I mean if she is, I think really loudly about grapefruits in French. Kenton just unlocks her car, totally natural, like I’m not shouting about produce in her brain, so I’m probably taking unnecessary measures. Just in case, I decide to only think about her in French from now on.

The drive to Kenton’s house would be sort of awkward, but she turns up her music really loud and sings along like she’s alone, which is pretty cool. She drives us to one of the newest subdivisions, one expensive enough that even my dad might like her, or at least not make that face like he needs to wash his hands after talking to her. When we get out of the car, one of those ragtop Jeeps that she probably takes the doors off of in the summer, she does this big fake sigh. “Go ahead, you can say it,” she says dramatically. I almost laugh when I realize she’s not kidding, but that doesn’t make me any less confused.

“I’m not sure what exactly I’m supposed to say,” I tell her kind of awkwardly. My voice picks the optimum time to crack, as usual.

Kenton plays with the end of her braid and pretends to be shy. Her nipples are not. It’s cold and I can see them through her sweater and I forget to think it in French, so I hesitate, waiting for her to maybe slap me. She doesn’t, so I figure that the jury is out on the whole psychic girlfriend thing. I guess her breasts are enough of a superpower and I try not to like her less for it.

“You know, how big my house is. _Everyone_ says it, it’s _so_ embarrassing.” She says this like it’s some huge burden, when though it seems like she likes it. I look at her house, and I am not impressed. It’s probably a quarter of the size of ours. If I felt like bragging, I’d ask her if she knew who I was, with that snotty emphasis my mom uses when she talks to Isabel.

I don’t want to hurt her feelings so I just say, “Wow”, and I let Kenton think I’m saying it about the house and not how stuck-up she’s acting. She flashes me a dazzling smile, and I almost forget. She grabs my arm and pulls me into the house.

The inside is nice, I guess, if you like cookie cutter luxury and poorly made mini-mansions. I kind of wish I’d gone to Scott’s house instead. Kenton is turning out of be kind of a snob. She drags me upstairs into her room, which is watermelon pink, and flops on her canopy bed. She has a vanity table just like my mom, except hers is cheap white wood with pink roses plastered on it. I don’t like Mom or anything, but hers is way nicer. It was handmade in Venice or something like that.

Kenton rolls onto her back and looks at me upside down. “So I’m having a party on Friday, and you just have to be there.”

I’ve never been invited to a party before, so I’m a little suspicious. I always thought it would be more like asking. Why would a mammoth-breasted mostly-pretty girl like her want me at her party anyway? Is it because I sort of sell drugs now? Does that give me some kind of street cred? Because it can’t be the sunglasses alone.  
Kenton rolls back onto her stomach and starts blinking at me like she’s going to faint. I sit down on the chair by her vanity and she flutters her eyelashes some more. I wonder if there’s something in her eye or if the spasmodic blinking is more sinister, like maybe she is really a robot and she’s opening the laser-cannons in her eyes to blow my head off and this is exactly the reason Jean is supposed to drive me home. He’d have known she was a robot assassin at a glance, probably.

“So, do you want to study?” I ask, incredibly awkwardly. I am awkward because she is potentially a machine built to destroy me or, worse, just an average teenage girl with large breasts and a mostly-pretty face, which is a lot more terrifying.

Kenton looks at me like I am the stupidest human being alive, which I’m starting to think I really must be. What non-robotic girl would volunteer to spend time with me? Clearly this has all been a ploy to lure me into her death-lair. Robots probably get very good grades in math. “It’s going to be an awesome party. My parents aren’t even going to be here,” she says, widening her laser eyes, and flips her braids back. I’m starting to get this funny feeling she doesn’t want to do math, and maybe not because she’s a robot death fiend. She stretches, sticking out her boobs, and her sweater rides up, showing off her flat tan stomach. It’s a little annoying how pretty she thinks she is. Breasts do not make you Miss America, even if they are alarmingly large. Really, even laser-cannon eyes do not make you Miss America. It just takes more than that.

“You _have_ to come,” she repeats, saying each word like it’s heavy. She crawls to the edge of the bed and I think she knows I can see down her shirt because she keeps wiggling her cleavage at me like it’s on purpose. “You just can’t tell Bobby about it, okay?”

She’s looking at me like she’s going to eat me. I get up from the chair too quickly. She’s not a robot, she’s a large-breasted cannibal! “Bobby?” I ask, only it comes out like a squeak. I sound like a parrot. I am in an older girl’s _bedroom_ , and I sound like a parrot. I am such a loser.

“Bobby _Bragg_?” she over-enunciates. I’d tell her I’m not deaf but I guess I have given her fair reason to think I might be. I wonder if she’d learn sign language to communicate with me, or maybe invent a new language using boob-wiggling, and if we’d fall in deaf love and get married. Probably not. I have got to stop thinking things like that. “You know, as in my ex- _boyfriend_?”

It starts to make a little bit of sense then, this whole perilously uncomfortable mess. “I just don’t want him to know because he’ll be like _really jealous_ if he finds out. He’ll like want to kill you and everything,” Kenton says, and you can tell just by the way she’s saying it that that is exactly what she does want. Not because she’s a maudlin sinistress plotting my death or anything, but just because she’s a girl and wants to make Bobby jealous. I liked her better when I thought she was a cannibal robot. Kenton is still talking. Don’t girls ever shut up?

I start to take out my math book. It’s like a subtle hint or something, if an elephant rampaging the delicates section of Bloomingdale’s is subtle. It’s kind of stuffed in my backpack so I have to really wrestle with it. When I finally get it free, Kenton is standing practically on top of me. I straighten up, holding the book like a shield between me and her breasts, which are angry. They really are enormous. Me being crushed is a very real possibility.

“Have you ever checked for tumors?” I start to ask, but all of a sudden for absolutely no reason whatsoever she mashes her mouth all over mine. It is a hot, wet, slimy sneak attack. She tries to put her tongue in my mouth and I back up fast, stumbling on my backpack. I clutch my math book for dear life. Since it’s my only weapon against her and the torpedoes under her sweater, I wish for the first time ever that there were about ten thousand more practice problems in it.

“What are you doing?” I ask. My stupid voice is still squeaky.

The question is simple enough, but Kenton seems to have a real problem with it. She breathes like the elephant that was rampaging Bloomingdale’s is now sitting on her chest. She is annoyed with me. “Making Bobby jealous,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on, let’s make out. You can touch my tits if you want to.”

I am horrified and appalled. Bobby Bragg is going to eat me for lunch; that is, if Kenton doesn’t suck all the flesh from my bones first.

Before she can get close enough to slobber on me again, I grab my backpack and scramble for the door. “N-no thanks,” I stammer. Like ballast, the bag slows me down. I consider throwing a few textbooks overboard—I mean, it’s not like my copy of English Literature that someone over the years spilled milk all over and therefore smells like an old woman’s underwear is irreplaceable or anything—but I decide that it will be good for momentum once I reach the stairs.

Kenton crosses her arms over her chest, hiding her frightening breasts from sight. I am grateful. “What’s wrong with you? Everyone knows you’re selling to Bobby, and if you’re going to be, like, popular now, you need a hot girlfriend.”

“No thanks,” I say again, and this time I run for it.  
Kenton yells ‘faggot’ after me as my backpack propels me down the stairs. I guess we’re back to that, but it’s not like I haven’t heard it all before.

Right now, that seems okay. Or at least better than the alternative.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	20. Peter

I pace. The terminal is still and empty. Haiyen and Masi speak in hushed tones by the window. I can’t stay still. The waiting is driving me mad.

For the first time in a long time, I am a man who has made the right decision. This position is right for me, and I’m sure I’ll be good at it. I just don’t think I chose it for the right reason.

I transferred from the New York branch voluntarily, even eagerly. I was an underling there, Mr. Mercer’s personal assistant, and I only got the job because my sister knows his wife. Serving as a translator at the Kyoto office, though, is a job I got in my own right—even if it is a step down. I used to have Mr. Mercer’s direct line, and now I’m worth less than the accountants. Everyone knows they’re a dime a dozen. Maybe I should have gotten an accounting degree—I bet they get paid more. But my major was in foreign language. I know all three of the Japanese alphabets, and a semester abroad made me fluent. I am far more eloquent in Japanese than English; I’ve even written some haikus. Really, this job is perfect for me. But that’s not why I’m here.

I make it to the potted fern for the forty-third time. Grey plastic seats line up so I can pass them. Murmurs of Masi’s praise for Mr. Puget reaches my ears as I turn and head back for the coffee kiosk. The overhead lights are off. The place is deserted. This whole terminal is a ghost town. Charter flights don’t disembark in this wing; every breath echoes.

Haiyen jokes that they’ll name this the Puget terminal, my new boss uses it so often. Isn’t a private jet enough? Does he need a private terminal, too? Haiyen Haraka and Kagamo Masi are both frighteningly smart young men who work side-by-side with the man they describe as the most innovative capitalist mind of his time. Having once seen to Mr. Mercer’s every need, I’m not sure I agree. After all, it’s not _Puget_ International that employs us.

But you don’t argue with the closest thing you have to friends in the entire country, so I haven’t mentioned it. I’d probably be sentenced to death by firing squad for using the name of Jade Puget in vain.

For what it’s worth, I sincerely hope they are right. If Mr. Puget isn’t a better man that Mr. Mercer, I have run halfway around the world for nothing. Because, like it or not, that’s what I did. I put my tail between my legs and I ran. There are brave men in this world, but I am by no means one of them.

Mr. Puget is apparently close enough to fluent not to need me. I’ve spent the last few months translating memos, phone calls, take-out menus, and the occasional meeting for the few Americans at our office. Today, though, Mr. Puget needs me. I got a phone call from his secretary instructing me to meet him at the airport. Apparently one of his big-shot businessman friends needs a translator for the week. Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited to finally be of use, but I’m not looking forward to playing tour guide and helping some stuffy old rich guy pay his cab fare and order sushi.

At least I’ll have someone to talk to. I’m starting to get pretty lonely, and Asian guys just aren’t my cup of tea. I never really got the whole anime craze, and I was too old for Pokémon.

I’m wearing my best suit. The dress shirt underneath is green, with an open banded collar. It brings out my eyes. My black hair is combed flat, and if my bangs fall into my eyes one more time I will personally tear out each individual hair. I get a little edgy when I wait.

I am nearing lap sixty of the abandoned gate when Masi calls my name, which always sounds so stiff thrown in with his babble of Japanese. Masi usually practices his fledgling English on me. If he’s speaking Japanese, I know it’s urgent.

“Peter, the plane is here!” he yells, grinning like a kid at Christmas. “Mr. Puget has returned!”

Haiyen is less exuberant. The thinner man brushes invisible lint off his suit and assumes his solemn, professional stance. He is very serious about his work. Masi, on the other hand, has trouble containing himself. Invariably, like a puppy, he will trip over his ears in effort to please. We’re lucky he’s housetrained.

Masi windmills his arms, beckoning me over to the window. When I get there, he drapes the arm across my shoulders. “The aeroplane will be to land,” he says in his awkward English. He and I should really sit down and talk about tense agreement sometime. “We must view at once.”

By the time the jet has sidled up to the gate, Masi too has composed himself, albeit the grin on his face. We stand in a silent line as the few passengers file off the jet and into the terminal. Masi and Haiyen make their greetings to each in turn, bowing.

Both men and the boy are strangers to me. The one I recognize as Mr. Puget performs the obligatory introductions, first in English and then in Japanese. Then it’s my turn.

“Peter Whent,” I introduce myself, offering handshakes all around. The boy, introduced as Emmanuel, just glares at me. I say a silent prayer I won’t have to escort _him_ around the city.

When the other man takes me hand, however, I’m struck. It’s rough and warm and whole, all at the same time. His dark hair waves coarsely, cut close to his head, and his blue eyes are bright and intelligent. His harsh Roman nose and long chin draw out from his face while large, boyish ears soften it. when he smiles, the sharp jigsaw of his face falls into place, shining like the smile is for me, just me. “Adam Carson,” he says, though Mr. Puget already told us his name. His voice is low and full and I’m glad to hear it. His Adam’s apple bobs when he speaks. Between the dimples and the ears, I estimate he’s not more than a year older than me, if that. I let go of his large hand in a daze, eyes entranced with the solidity of him inside his Italian-cut suit, the firmness of his biceps and the expanse of his shoulders. His shirt under the jacket is only a few shades darker than his eyes, drawing the color out so they shine like stars. Mr. Puget is speaking, but it’s difficult to hear. I can’t take my eyes off Mr. Carson.

Finally Masi nudges me. “You are staring,” he says in low, fast Japanese. “Mr. Puget has just explained you are to take his associate to his hotel, and show him a good place to eat. You have been commissioned to be his translator. Smile and say yes.”

I hope that Masi has spoken too quietly for Mr. Puget to understand. Certainly his face is unchanged. I feel a silly grin spread across my face and nod. “I’d be more than happy to, Mr. Puget,” I bubble before turning my smile on Adam. “Mr. Carson, I’m at your disposal.”

He smiles again, and this time I think it changes my life. “Please,” he says. “Call me Adam.”

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	21. Jade

Haiyen presses my itinerary into my hands and bids me goodnight with a final bow. He gets back into the car and Emmanuel and I are left with his luggage on the sidewalk outside my apartment building. Suddenly without chaperone, I don’t know what to say.

I settle for picking up his suitcase and walking inside. The doorman nods at us and I say, “This is my son” in awkward Japanese. The old man gives a solemn-faced bow and Em gives me a look.

“These people are so weird,” he mutters. I usher him into the elevator. I should tell him they just take getting used to, or try to explain Japanese culture to him, but I don’t. I’m still a little rattled by the way the translator was drooling over Adam. Is a rebound really what he needs right now? Won’t that just make having his heart broken worse?

I do not want to consider the messy fling Adam might be having even now with Peter Whent. However, since we parted ways at the airport, it’s been hard to think of much else. I’ll be with both of them again first thing in the morning. If I want to survive the experience, I need to stop imagining the bizarre sex I highly doubt they’re having.

I feel unclean. I glance at my son, who is staring straight ahead, frowning. “Do you want me to cook you something?” I ask, even though there is no food in my apartment. “Are you hungry?”

We step off the elevator. Em drags his feet. I set down his suitcase to produce my apartment key, and I let us in. “There’s some really great restaurants around here,” I say to fill the silence. Em looks around my tiny living room with distaste. He is close-minded and American. I’m shocked.

“You left us for _this_?” he asks petulantly.

Saying ‘no, I left you for work’ or ‘no, I left because your mother is a hormonal shrew’ seems somehow inappropriate, so I ignore the question. Small as the apartment may be, in Japan it’s prime real estate, the height of stackable luxury. There is not very much space in this thumbnail of a country. It suits me well enough, though. I’m just as crazy in confined spaces as in open ones, and it’s not as if I spend much time here anyway. It’s surprising how little room I actually take up.

I set his suitcase down next to the futon. Swedish innovation allows me to flatten it into a bed in a few simple steps. “This is where you’ll be sleeping,” I say. To save space, the television is wall-mounted. It’s 42 inches and pretty much the Zeus of current technology. It’s a free sample from a client, not yet available on a sellable market. Em’s eyes go wide at the sight of it. I haven’t used it yet, but if the image quality is half as good as we’re marketing it to be, I get the feeling he’ll be up all night watching it. I got a satellite dish installed as soon as I decided to bring him here. I very highly doubt even my son will muster a complaint, especially when he notices the Playstation shoved into the corner. I mean, I even get a few porn channels now, in case I have a normal boy who likes that kind of thing. I am really, really trying here. I don’t want to fuck up this time.

Em’s stomach growls. If we were a normal family, we could probably laugh about it. Instead, I sit down on the armchair adjacent to the futon. I’ve got sheets for it, but I realize I haven’t bought pillows. I’ll have to open the Adam throws after all, if I want Em to have anything to sleep on. For once, there is not an ulterior motive. I didn’t even plan this. How could I have? My son needs a pillow, it’s that simple.

“I don’t want to eat fish,” Emmanuel interrupts my rationalization. “Isabel told me to make sure it was cooked before I ate it.”

I can live with that. I’m not great at sushi either. Then I have an idea that, if I’m not mistaken, might be a fun dad thing, or at least the kind of thing Jade Puget would not ever volunteer to do.

“If you’re up to it, there’s a McDonald’s two blocks away,” I venture. Cheap, greasy, low-class dining at its best. Isn’t that the American standard that teenagers and the obese alike enjoy so much? I wait for my son to tell me what a useless idiot I am, but the rebuke doesn’t come.  
“Okay,” Em says, a little uncertainly. “Thanks, Dad.”

I’ll eat anything after that.

 

 

Somehow Em and I survive the night, and we get to the office before Adam or his pet translator, who I have little but contempt for. I’ve only known the man for moments, but I manage to dislike him with almost no premise anyway. It’s one of my personal strengths. I arrange myself in my office, which is smaller than the one in San Francisco. The walls are paneled in wood, brushed pale grey. The floor is resonant black tile. Woven mats sit on either side of the door. The mat on the left is empty, for my more traditional colleagues to lay their shoes on; the mat on the right is lined with several pairs of wooden sandals. As always, I ignore the mats. My shoes click sharply on the smooth tile. My desk is teak, a bloody pomegranate red, and lower than is traditional. My chair is short, made of the same sanguine teak, and a gold cushion occupies the seat. There are a few ornamental pieces, all expensive and Oriental and tasteful, decorating the room. The windows are shuttered and I have candles instead of fluorescent overheads. Two gas lanterns hang from the walls, on opposite sides of the room. At night, the lit candles and lanterns cast pools of light deep in the inky floor.

Since it’s morning, I open the shutters instead. The only thing I light is a stick of incense. Masi gave me a carved jade incense burner with bronze inlay as a token of welcome and respect. Haiyen gave me a bundle of incense and instructions to burn sage in the mornings, lilac for stress, cloves for nightfall and cinnamon only after dusk. To honor both of them, I do.

I remand Emmanuel onto Masi. He is quick to grin and never without comment, but he is as serious about his work as I am. Dedication is a refreshing change of pace from the behavior of my American employees. I think the last with a mental stab at Peter Whent, even at Adam. Their professionalism is clearly lacking, and Masi has never been late. I’ve even saddled him with child care for the morning, a task far below his station, because I want Em to have a tour of the place and I don’t have time to do it—and he’s met the challenge with only enthusiasm at the chance to practice his English. And yet Adam, my second-in-command back home, is too enamored with the doe-eyed strumpet of a translator that is Peter Whent to show up on time.

I sit on my cushion and breathe sage deep into my lungs, hoping the sharp green scent will steady me. Peter Whent is an attractive man. I cannot hate him for that alone. Infused with sage, or maybe my own peculiar serenity, I can shake off the inexplicable jealously gnawing at me. I’ve met Hunter. He’s a peroxide blond with a perpetual pout. Peter Whent is not Adam’s type. I don’t even care about Adam’s type. I breathe and center myself and detach, wandering in to the hollow part of my brain where not even my flashbulb anger can reach me, and I am at peace.

When Adam slips into my office, face flushed, I feel nothing. I hit him with a serene gaze and wait for him to make excuses.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” he asks. I wait for him to tell me he forgot to adjust his watch to the time change. I glance at my own watch. He is eight minutes late, and I expect remorse.

I get none. He settles himself into the chair opposite my own and looks around the office with interest. “It’s nice,” he appraises. It’s more than nice, but I don’t bristle. I stay empty, so hollow I don’t know if I’ll ever be filled again. “I don’t know why you’d leave us for it, but it’s nice.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his face. Why is everyone so hung up about me leaving them for the décor of my new rooms? Doesn’t anyone know me better than that? “Do you think this is a vacation?” I ask him, voice still and calm and cold.

Adam is not cowed. He raises his eyebrows at me. “No, I would never make that mistake, sir. What is my mission?”  
He’s annoying me on purpose. An acrid bitterness fills my mouth and for a moment I doubt myself. Why did I bring him here? I have an exemplary business model in Kyoto. Adam doesn’t belong here. He’s no part of this continent or this business. He’s no part of my life, either. So why is he here?

Adam is frowning. “Have I done something to upset you?” he asks curtly.

I hesitate. I don’t know what to say. No, he hasn’t done anything to upset me, not if I’m going to be rational. To Adam, it feels like punishment when I shut him out. That makes me regret letting him in at all. I never meant to make room for him in me, but he wormed his way in nonetheless, and every glimpse he catches makes me more vulnerable. There are days, a lot of them, when I don’t care about that anymore. This morning is not one of them. I’m with Adam, but there is no joy—perhaps I’ve been wrong about him. As much freedom as there is in that thought, so is there sorrow.

I give in. I sigh and tell the truth. “You were eight minutes late,” I tell him. I try to say it like it’s logical, but Adam laughs, full-throated and loud. It’s a laugh that warms me all the way through.

I’d yell at him, but he’s right to laugh. I’ve been ridiculous. Maybe I still haven’t moved beyond the jealousy I thought I’d put aside. Maybe somehow it has found its way into my drowning core.

“Fine, this is a vacation,” I admit sourly. “I’d hoped I’d have time to show you around the city, but we’re buried in new accounts. I want you to find Peter Whent. The two of you are going to Tokyo for the day. He can show you the sites, and you can conduct a meeting I’m too swamped to get to.” I hand him the client’s file and realize why I’m jealous. “Yamagato Industries. You can read the profile on the train,” I tell him. “Put on your best show. This account will stabilize the entire branch.” I pause, and Adam grins at me. “Now go,” I tell him, smiling. It’s a courtesy smile, not a real one, but Adam’s too excited by his day trip to Tokyo to be concerned.

It’s not until he’s out the door that I’ll admit to myself why I envy Peter Whent. It’s because I knew from the start I wouldn’t have time to show Adam around, to visit temples and eat sushi and stay up all night. I knew all along work wouldn’t allow me to disappear for a week; I have too many balls in the air, too many plates spinning. There are not enough hours in the day as it is; I just don’t have the time to spend with Adam. Any free moment I _can_ scrap up, I owe to my son.

The reason I envy Peter Whent is not his good looks, not the way he’d eyed Adam. It’s because I commissioned him for the week to do what I’d give anything to be doing. This week is Adam’s, and it is his. Peter Whent will have what I wanted more than anything; and I’m obligated to hate him for making me see that, for making me admit it. What I want more than anything isn’t this company anymore. It’s not for my son to love me. It’s not Marissa and the coming baby. And it’s not Isaac, either.

It’s Adam.  
 

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	22. Adam

Peter flashes me a relieved grin. The Japanese businessmen file out of the conference room, leaving us to gather our things privately. The diminutive scribe, a trim woman in a purple suit jacket and matching skirt, stands solemnly next to the door, holding it open for us unobtrusively.

“I’m new at this,” Peter admits, his face a little flushed. “I’ve never translated for someone important before, but I think that went well.”

Peter thinks I’m someone important, and that brings a smile to my face. On the train, he taught me some rudimentary Japanese, ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ and ‘it’s an honor to be here’. He’s very friendly, very cute, but very passive. He’s just too obedient, too eager to please, to make it in a corporate setting, but he’s a damn good translator. His good favor wouldn’t mean much to a long-time executive, but I’m new enough that even the approval of underlings is important to me. After all, it wasn’t so long ago I was one of those underlings.

He’s right. It did go well. The board members were very impressed with us, and they signed on to the contract. A contract like this will finalize our brand in Japan. We’ve done more than well. We’ve secured the company’s footing abroad. We are heroes.

I give Peter my biggest grin. “Take us to the best restaurant in the city,” I announce, pleased with myself and my attractive companion. “Mercer _International_ owes us lunch.”

Peter is beaming as he hails a taxi and gives the driver incomprehensible directions. He settles back in the cab and no matter how pretty his smile is, I’m thinking of Jade. Of how proud he’ll be that I did this. The way he’ll smile and the lines around his eyes will crinkle; the way my name will fall from his lips like a favorite word.

“What are you thinking about?” Peter Whent asks me. It’s an innocent question, but I feel as if I’ve been caught doing something terrible. I’m instantly suspicious, as if he knew I was thinking about Jade, as if that’s why he asked. How does Peter know? Was it something I said, something I did?

I’m being paranoid. I’m guilt-ridden. But Peter doesn’t know I’ve been daydreaming about Jade. Peter doesn’t know.  
I meet his dazzling eyes and don’t have to lie, not really. “My boss,” I say. “He’s going to be glad we nailed this meeting.”

I hope his line of questioning ends there, but it’s in vain. Peter isn’t done. “What’s he like?” he asks me, eyes wide. “Mr. Puget, I mean. Mr. Mercer always spoke so highly of him. I’ve only met him once.”

Suddenly, I’ve forgotten Jade. “You know Isaac Mercer?” I demand incredulously. “You have to tell me everything about him! He’s flying here tomorrow and I’m going to make a fool of myself if you don’t tell me every single thing about him!”

Peter laughs, laughs at me. I don’t mind it. “We sound like schoolgirls,” he teases. “Omigod, you know _Justin Timberlake_?” I join in with the laughter, and it feels good, just to interact like normal human beings, light-hearted and happy, anger so far below the surface it doesn’t even register instead of boiling just under my skin. “You go first,” he urges.

That’s fair enough, but I don’t want to talk about Jade, don’t even want to think about Jade. Right this minute, I’m laughing with Peter and it’s nice. I’m enjoying myself with a very good-looking man, and maybe I should truly enjoy myself, not spend the time mooning over some hard-ass iceman who will never, ever want me.

“He’s all right,” I say lamely. “I wouldn’t worry about it. As long as you don’t screw up in a way that costs him money, he’ll ignore you.”

I sound as cold as Jade is, but what I’ve said is true. I could have said it more completely, or in a more flattering way, but that wouldn’t change it. Money is the only thing that would put Peter on Jade’s radar, because money is, I think, the only thing Jade cares about.

Thinking that, I suddenly like Jade Puget a whole lot less. What personal interest does he have in me? Dollars and cents. Have I ever been his friend, or have I always been another commodity? He has no room for anything else.

The rational part of me knows, or at least has reason to believe, that I’m being dramatic, that none of it is as true as it feels. But I am not interested in that part of me right now. Right now, with Peter’s great ass in the seat next to me, not caring about Jade seems like a pretty good plan.

“Now tell me about Isaac,” I prompt about Peter. “How do you know him? What’s he like?”

Peter’s face is flaming. I don’t know what he has to blush about, but the color flatters him. “He has the most amazing green eyes,” Peter almost squeaks. I raise one eyebrow in what I know is a look of faint contempt. I learned it from Jade. I have no contempt for Peter; the look is because I don’t care what color Isaac’s eyes are. Of course, that Peter does opens a whole new line of questioning. Meek, pretty Peter Whent, with that paraffin smile sizzling across his face, so polite and soft and so well-dressed. He’s gay, isn’t he? The realization comes to be with a jolt. He’s gay. I’ve never had much luck discerning sexuality. Figuring out my own was hard enough.

My body reacts. Warmth spreads through me, and before I know what’s happening my contempt is dissolved into my most winning smile. He is gay and attractive and I am so overwhelmingly lonely. He’s a godsend. Jade could have hired any translator, but Peter Whent is who he chose, who he assigned to take care of me. It’s almost like fate.

Peter’s babbling about Mr. Mercer’s personality and demeanor. Moments ago, that was very valuable information to me; now, the only information I value is what gets Peter Whent naked the fastest. I don’t hear a word of what he’s saying. I grin, and lower my voice, and interrupt him. “Peter,” I say, somewhat urgently, “let me buy you a drink before lunch.”

Peter shoves a shaggy lock of black hair out of his shining eyes and gives me a shy smile. I let me eyes travel the length of his body, lean and lithe and encased in a soft Neiman Marcus suit. The suit is brown, warm enough to bring out the burnt orange in his auburn eyes. He’s slim, with just enough muscle tone to fill out the sleeves, and the undone collar of his green dress shirt flashes rich gold skin pulled over a sharp collarbone. He’s bright, soft, and shiny as a new penny, and suddenly I’m smitten. Nested in the hollow of his throat is a pewter charm in the shape of a curl. He must be nervous, because his hand goes to it. The hand is all wrong; it breaks the spell. It’s small, soft, feminine. The nails are clean and neat in his tanned skin, glowing warm like pearls. It’s not Jade’s hand.

For some reason, I expect it to be Jade’s hand. Expect it to be Jade.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to stare,” I say, like whose hand it is doesn’t matter, not really, and bring my gaze back up to meet his slightly slanted eyes. He’s gorgeous, I can’t deny that. I don’t want to. I let my eyes flow over the smooth almond skin of his throat, where they fall again on the charm he’s still toying with. No, it’s not Jade’s hand. He’s not Jade. And I am so damn glad I could stand up and sing. The cab driver might not love that, though, so I keep my seat.

Peter’s blushing. His cheeks are pale pink roses. “You have a great tan,” I say, trying blindly to flirt. “Where are you from?”

I’m floundering, but Peter’s soaking up the attention nonetheless. The energy in the cab has changed. It buzzes, almost tangible, around us. Drawing breath seems intimate. My eyes burn into his, and he smiles like silk. This electric moment is more sex than I’ve had in months. “I was born in New York,” Peter says, finding his voice a little breathlessly. That my attention is embarrassing him is either a terrible sign, or a great one. I don’t know how to flirt. I’m no good at this. “But it’s not a tan. I mean, I moved from winter in Manhattan to an office plaza in Kyoto. It’s not like I’ve been sunning myself. I’ve got enough islander blood in me to have a dark complexion.”

I lean away, relaxing against the car door and taking in the sight of him. I drop my voice lower still and say, “Wherever you're from, you’re exquisite.”

It’s lucky that we reach the restaurant then. I give the driver a handful of yen and spill out of the cab before either of us can die of embarrassment in wake of what I’ve just said.

It’s blinding daylight, and standing in the street six feet from Peter, thinking of sex seems strangely indecent. That alone helps me collect myself. I’m behaving like an idiot. I’m not capable of seducing my translator. If I’m going to win him over, it will have to be with honesty alone. God know I have no charm.

Peter’s recovered as well. “You overpaid the driver,” he scolds me. “I know the conversion, let me handle the bills.”

“I know it too,” I tell him, and I’m not lying. Dan from accounting has been a good influence on me. “Now come on, I promised to buy you a drink.”

I hold the door open and Peter ducks his head to hide his smile. We have drinks while we wait for a table. Peter reads the menu to me and we flirt. He’s better at being coy and seductive than I am, but he doesn’t seem to care, or even notice. The meal goes well and we’re both still sober at the end of it. Sober is a kind of fun I’ve never had with Jade. Neither of us can relax until we’ve sunk into a bottle. With Peter, it’s not like that. We talk about business, culture, the economy. We get into politics over dessert, which reminds me of crème brulee but has a strange, exotic flavor to it. Peter reveals the outgoing side of himself, getting worked up and passionate about gay rights. It would worry me, his spiel about marriage, if I thought I had a chance at something long-term with him. No, Jade being overseas is hard enough; I don’t need to pine for Peter, too. Besides, I don’t know what I’m trying to accomplish with Peter. I know I’m lonely and I know I want him. Beyond the immediate goal of sex, I just don’t know.

Peter looks at his watch, which is not as expensive as it’s meant to look, and I can tell. The somewhat impressive title of translator on retainer probably does not have much of a paycheck attached to it, and I wonder why he chose it. I’d ask, but Peter drops his napkin on the table and signals our waiter for the check. “We’ve got to get going,” he explains. “The last train to Kyoto leaves the station in under an hour.”

My face falls in genuine disappointment. After wanting so badly to be close to Jade for so long, I suddenly find that the only thing I want is to be far away, in another city entirely, with Peter. Not anywhere near Jade. I’m angry with him, and I don’t know why. Because Jade always makes me angry. Because he left me. Because he didn’t even know he was leaving me. Because I’m here to be with him, and I will never be with him, and he handed me off to Peter instead of being with me. There is no logic. There’s only anger—and Peter’s hand on my arm. “Adam?’ he prompts. The waiter is holding the check out to me, waiting for the card. I fish it out of my wallet clumsily. When he’s walked away, I clasp my hand over Peter’s, keeping it on my arm.

I look into his eyes and go out on a limb. “Let’s not go back,” I say. “I want to sightsee, and we haven’t seen any of the city. Let’s stay, and you can show me the Tokyo nightlife. We’ll take the first train back tomorrow.”

I let go of his hand. Peter looks torn. “Mr. Puget wants—” he starts to protest. Just the name makes the anger flare up in me again. I don’t give a fucking damn what Mr. Puget wants, because I know all too well what Mr. Puget doesn’t want. He doesn’t want _me_ , and what the fuck else matters?

“Forget what Mr. Puget wants,” I say, too forcefully. “Your job is to show me Tokyo, and so far all I’ve seen is a boardroom and a restaurant. We’ll be on the first train tomorrow morning.”

Peter makes a few more noises, but it’s not really a disagreement. We both know I’ve won, that he never had the veto power to begin with. Besides that, he wants to stay, wants to play tour guide for me, enjoys being at the beck and call of someone he thinks is an important man who dotes on him. I ask with a smile on my face, and Peter melts with me.

I was wrong, the last time I thought it. Peter kneels at my feet and sings my praises and offers to lick them clean, and this time I know— _this_ is what it feels like to be Jade Puget.

Peter is what it feels like to be me.  
 

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	23. Jade

Most of what I’ve accomplished today is hating myself. Every time I have to stop myself from picking up the phone and calling him, I hate myself. Every time I sigh and wish I was with him, I hate myself. And every time I try to absorb myself in work, which used to make the hours fly by the way hobbies are supposed to, and my mind falls back to him, I hate myself.

Life as I know it is ending.

I ran away—yes, ran away—to Japan to get rid of him, but now I’ve brought him here. I wasn’t even good enough at cowardice to stay away. I wasn’t even loyal to weakness, to fear. I should do the responsible thing and fire him on the grounds of liking him too much. Except it is worse, even, than that. When I think about him, when I stop fighting and slip into it, it’s like sliding into a hot bath of candle wax. The warmth caresses every inch of me, inside and out, and sticks to my skin almost too hot to bear, and I want to pull back before I’m burned up, but it’s gotten to the point that anything short of immolation is so cold I’ll freeze to death.

With a jolt, I realize that the responsible thing to do _would_ be to fire him, to fire him and throw myself into work and my wretched little family and never breathe his name again. But that wouldn’t be the right thing, would it. It wouldn’t be the right thing for either of us.

I try to organize my thoughts before I’m lost in them. It’s like I’ve opened the floodgates and I’m going mad. I can’t ignore it anymore. I am really, truly _feeling_ something. I’m not sure what, not yet, but there’s nothing I want more than to follow the warmth and find out, even if it means I’ll lose everything.

The phone rings and it’s a godsend. It snaps me out of my muddy reverie, erases his name from my mind. The newly familiar voice of Ayumi, my overseas assistant, comes coolly over the intercom. “Mr. Carson on line three for you,” she says, in practiced English just a little too flawless to be authentic. It sounds wrong, somehow, to hear every syllable pronounced crisp and correct. I want to tell her we don’t talk like that, but she’s the only one doing it right.

I curse with feeling. Surprising even myself, with one sudden motion I sweep everything from the left of my laptop off my desk and to the ground. Fuck lilac. It’s not helping. Adam fucking Carson is the last fucking person in the world I want to talk to right now. It’s amazing, how quickly that warmth can turn to anger, but suddenly I’m furious, and I abruptly relocate the entire surface of my desk to the solemn marble floor.

That quick snakebite flex of aggression, like so much else, falls short of the desired effect. Adam’s voice comes up from the floor, muffled from the desk debris fallen on the receiver. I wonder what unnecessary paperweight, pen, or client file landed on the speakerphone button. “If I ever find out which one of you bastards did this, you will be punished,” I growl at the clusterfuck spread across my floor, standing and leaning forward over my desk to glare at the mess.

“Uh, Jade?” Adam repeats from the floor. I swear again, more loudly, and lunge around my desk for the phone, skidding on a file folder. Dignity be damned.

“Was that directed at me?” he asks. I make a small strangled sound, not unlike a laugh.

“Yes and no,” I answer, which is half true, and start speaking before he can ask. “Hey, I promised Emmanuel I’d make you spend the night at the apartment. Apparently I’m too bad at Mortal Kombat-with-a-K to be a worthy adversary, let alone a roommate.” I think it’s kind of smooth, the way I’ve diverted the subject away from myself and my fit of profanity. I am in no state to talk about me just now, at least not to him.

Adam sounds embarrassed. I’m instantly suspicious, jealousy at my hip like a pistol just waiting to be drawn. Just give me a reason, and I’ll open fire. He’s with Peter Whent, let’s not forget. Peter Whent is an ass bastard, whatever I mean by that particular phrase. I don’t trust him.

“That’s actually what I’m calling about,” Adam says. “I’ll need a rain check. Peter and I are having a really great time, but I haven’t gotten to see much of Tokyo, so we’re extending our stay. Don’t worry, I’ll be on time for the grand tour with Mr. Mercer and probably not even embarrass you.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. I open my mouth and close it again. I feel like an idiot, crouched on the floor over my phone like a feral beast, my bitter heart bursting. My throat feels hot, too hot to speak. It’s burning from the inside. It’s as if time has frozen, or maybe I have; maybe I’m stuck, trapped, crystallized in time, and time has sped up into a deafening blur around me. In the time it takes me to exhale, he and Peter fuck, fall in love, get married, adopt underprivileged third-world wanna-be abortions, and I just get older and older till I crawl through gravel to my deathbed and Marissa turns and leaves as soon as I’ve signed the will and I am still irrevocably empty fucking me, even when my son’s pressing a pillow over my feeble face until I smother, and thinking stops.

No, I think. Just that one word. No. that’s not how it will be. I will stop it before it starts. I can change, I will change, I must change.

So, I do what I can. I hang up the phone. I change things.  
I buzz Aymui and tell, rather than request, her to come up to my office. I am a man with his mind made up. She is as prompt to comply as always; I hear her kitten heels punching the floor briskly down the hall to my door almost as soon as I’ve hung up.

For a moment, Ayumi is framed in the doorway, tiny and pale. She smoothes her small, white hands over the conservative pleats of her grey, wool skirt. Her white blouse is starched stiff, the collar high and lacy at her translucent throat. Her straight black hair is flat and shot in a fashionable pixie cut; to me she looks like a child, a doll. Her eyes are downcast. She is crisp and professional and incredibly efficient , but all the respectful staring at the floor is tiresome. I cross the room and raise her face, cupping her chin in my hand. “Let me see your eyes, Ayumi.”

Shyly, she raises her gaze to meet mine. Her eyes are almond-shaped, so dark brown they’re nearly black. They aren’t Adam’s, aren’t what I want to see. It doesn’t matter. I take a deep breath and tell myself it doesn’t matter. I have to do this—for me, and not only for me, but for everything. If I ever want to look into Adam’s blue eyes without hating myself again, I have to do this.

Ayumi lets out a trembling breath and her face quivers in my hand and I know she’s mine. I smile at her, knowing it doesn’t reach my eyes. She blushes, rosebuds in her ivory complexion, and I can almost believe that she’s lovely. It’s not her fault she’s unattractive to me; it’s his. “Please, sit,” I say, and my voice is smooth as honey. If I were being honest, it would be low and rough. Just the silky sound of it leaves a trail of slime down my tongue; lies drip thick off my skin, lazy and indolent as molasses. Ayumi sits prettily, crossing her nylon-encased legs below the knee, like a lady. It doesn’t permit me a glimpse up her skirt, only a nice view of the buttons on the sides of her mules, and I’m grateful. Her modesty will make this easier. She’s so nervous she’s stopped breathing. I wonder what she thinks is going to happen, but something stirs in her black eyes and I think she already knows. I think she can tell. It’s yet another trick women have devised to make themselves even more intimidating. She licks her bottom lip and one shoe slips off her heel to dangle from her small toes. Her stockings are surprisingly intimate, making her seem small and soft and vulnerable—another female trick I don’t like. For one thing, they never are so soft and helpless as they seem; for another, why would you want a damsel in distress when you could have a screaming, bloody warrior who’d sooner kill you than allow a rescue? I try to clear my head and kneel in front of Ayumi as if I’m proposing. It’s going to be hell on the sharp crease in my pant leg. Ayumi bites her carefully made-up bottom lip, and it’s my moment.

“You’re a beautiful girl,” I murmur to Ayumi. Her eyes go wide and supple and I don’t hesitate. I pull her face to mine and kiss her, kiss her as if I were a man starved, trying almost violently to fill my mouth with hers, hers with mine. I kiss her as if she were someone else; her lips, her tongue, her teeth and gums—feverishly, I lick and touch and taste them all. I explore her mouth as if I’ll devour her, as if I’ll eat her whole, as if when I’m sticky and dripping with the little blood that’s left only then will this madness be sated. She tastes clean, almost flavorless; nothing like the sweet, nutty flavor of Marissa, nothing like the whiskey Isaac’s tongue had burned with, and I feel nothing. I am dead below the waist. There is not even a stirring. All I feel is the wetness of her mouth on mine, the commingled saliva fusing our mouths in one hot forge, and ache my desperate motions spread through my jaw. I know that I could lift her from her chair and splay her back on my clean-swept desk, shove her skirt around her waist and fuck her, fuck her with her stockings on and her heels in the air, fuck her on the sleek expanse of teak while she cried my name, fuck her today and tomorrow and the next day and rub her tiny panties in Marissa’s pinched face, and she’d let me. And I feel nothing. She moans low in her throat and I pull away suddenly, so suddenly her moan startles us, strange and abrupt once released out in the air.

“Mr. Puget,” she says huskily, and maybe wonders what she did wrong that I’ve stopped. Her pale pink lipstick is smeared around her lips, on my face. She is the first person who isn’t Marissa that I’ve kissed in eighteen years. I don’t know what to think, what to feel; so I feel nothing. I think nothing.

“ _Ashikarazu_. I’m sorry,” I tell Ayumi, who is breathing hard, who has stars in her eyes, who is looking at me like she’d love me if I gave her half the chance, who has no idea who I am or why I’ve done this. I untangle my bag from my lamp, which are entwined like lovers on the floor, and feel no remorse. I wait to feel something, anything, and don’t. I betrayed Marissa. I broke our sacred vow. I cheated on my wife. In the end, that’s the kind of man I was. That’s the kind of monster.  
I say nothing else to Ayumi because there is nothing else to say. It’s over. With that one, hollow kiss—which meant nothing, which meant everything—I’ve ended it. The sham we’ve clung to and called a marriage for eighteen years. The funeral procession of my life. All of it, it’s over.

I’m not sure where I’m going. To find a lawyer, I suppose. Mercer Pacific has several on retainer, none in Kyoto. But for right now, I have to get out of the office. I am not going to get any more work done today.

 

 

I pass Masi in the hall. “Mr. Puget,” he says, lighting up at the sight of me. His enthusiasm is sometimes frightening, but today I am undeterred.

“Masi! Just who I wanted to see,” I declare, turning him around and throwing an arm around his shoulders. The Japanese are even less touchy-feely than I am, but no other gesture says ‘walk with me’ quite like it. Still, he’s nothing but pleased—it’s Masi, after all.

“What is it, Mr. Puget?” he asks eagerly. “What can I do?”

I pause, my stride faltering only for a moment. “Masi, where is my son?” I ask, changing the subject. Is it wrong that, in the last hour, I have effectively destroyed my marriage and cheated on my wife, but failed to recall that my son is on the same continent until midway through the conversation?

It’s not something I’m going to lose sleep over. “Mr. Emmanuel is teaching Haiyen about video games,” Masi tells me, giving a small bow. How he coordinates that while walking is beyond me. “There is much knowledge Haiyen lacks, your son says.”

I shake my head, dismissing the comment. Before this ill-advised venture in father-son bonding, I had no idea Em cared so much about video games and the skill of his opponent. In fact, playing video games seems perilously normal for any son of mine, especially since I’ve always thought of him as a supervillian. “Masi, I need a good lawyer,” I segue seamlessly. “Can you get me one?”

Masi does a double-take. Divorce is not a big thing in Eastern culture, so he probably assumes my need for a lawyer is more serious than domestic dispute. “Don’t worry, it’s not insider trading,” I tell him, hoping my Japanese is good enough that he knows I’m joking. Insider trading is more serious than murder in the corporate world. I could tell Masi the real reason, but is that something he needs to know? No. Absolutely not. In no way will it increase his job performance or personal productivity; therefore, it’s not his business. No matter what they say, I’m still a cold bastard at heart. I cling to that thought.

Masi decides my off-color comment is a joke, probably because that scenario keeps him out of the courtroom, and he laughs weakly for me. I have become the kind of boss who makes bad jokes and is rewarded with weak laughter. What’s next? Coffee mugs with jokes printed on them? Cartoon character ties? God, I disgust myself.

“You have frightened me,” Masi says in his patchwork English. “There is a legal consult on the third floor,” he adds in Japanese, which is something I should have known. I’m slipping. That bastard Adam is ruining me; but I think it with fondness. Like I said, disgusting. Pathetic.

I laugh out loud. I’m not sure why, but can’t help myself. Masi looks alarmed, and he should. “You’re a hero,” I tell him. “Thank you.” I break off from our huddle, veering towards the deep maroon elevator doors. They almost glow in the dark wood paneling, which soaks up all the light from the ornate overhead lamps, gleaming auburn.

“Mr. Puget!” Masi calls after me, back to English. He really is determined to learn. It’s like watching a one-armed man try to breaststroke. “Mr. Isaac is to arriving this late night.”

I nod my head, pressing the small bronze upside-down triangle in the wall to summon an elevator. A white glow builds in the cracks around the triangle in response to my efforts. “Thank you, Masi. Meet him at the airport and call me when he arrives. Make sure Emmanuel gets home safely.”

Masi gives me a sharp nod and turns on heel, off to do my bidding. The elevator doors part for me with a soft, contented hum. The lights glow dim and gold inside the elevator, as they do in the hallways. The floor is maple-colored marble, the walls gold-tinted mirrors. Except for the hush of the elevator’s movement and my own breathing, there is silence. I’m alone with my thoughts, and lately that hasn’t been a good thing. It’s been the opposite, in fact. I made a fuss when we moved into this building about the elevator music. The maintenance crew thought it was soothing. I wanted it gone, even before we contracted the renovation and implemented the new décor. It was that important to me. I fired the head of the maintenance staff for even arguing the point. Marketing is about innovation, competitive ideas, opinions—but being at the top is about not listening to anything you don’t want to hear. Including elevator music. But now, trapped in the silent, blushing elevator, I can’t remember why it mattered. The dulcet tones of a sitar would be more than welcome. Hell, Guns’N’Roses would be welcome. All I want is a distraction. Without one, two tiny facts overwhelm me. I kissed Ayumi, thereby ending my marriage; and Adam is with Peter, having the time of his life.

I’m aware only of my head, swarmed with thoughts; my body, churning with feelings. I can barely stop to breathe, let alone meditate, let alone push it all down to where it came from, to a place where I can deal with it. I am a desperate mess of unresolved, repressed problems and emotions; the calm, cool quiet, the numb serenity I’ve always called home, is gone. The hollow, spreading center inside of me is suddenly drowning with perceptions, reactions, all these damned _feelings_. And somewhere in there, underneath all that turmoil and frenzy and collective dread, is me. Is who I used to be. Who I’ve all but forgotten. It all comes back in a teeming, desperate rush; and I go mad. I strangle on my scream. How did I ever live, when I felt every moment?

There’s anger. Sick, crippling loathing that threatens to bring the great Jade Puget to his knees with vomit on his lips, on his eight-thousand-dollar suit, all over his custom elevator floor. Stronger yet is the self-loathing, the misery and scorn, the utter contempt for my own arrogance—and there is the arrogance, growing stronger still. The frustration, the endless years trapped, immobile, in impossible circumstances, impossible misery. The sting and humiliation to that coiled sense of pride, the smoldering memory of the hellhole I grew up in, the rusted-out sputtering Ford and the eternally ill-fitting clothing, the socks and tennis shoes for Christmas, the inequity and wrath of all the times we went hungry, all the winters we were cold. There’s humiliation, and loss, and disgust; and there’s heartbreak, there’s Isaac and Marissa and her long string of lovers and that awful scar; there’s Emmanuel and Annette and there’s pain—

And there’s Adam. Oh, there’s Adam. Adam crashes into me like I’ve fallen into the ocean. It hits me with blunt, crippling force, and I’m stunned, immobile. His changing face floods behind my eyes, from the first time I met him to when I last saw him this morning and every moment in between; it all flows through me, around me, fills up my lungs with sex and love and hate and agony and it’s as if my body’s burst open and I’m blind for the blood in my eyes, mute for the fluid in my lungs, deaf for the sound of my own screaming heart.

I can’t ride the swell of emotion, so I fight it. I thrash and rile against it, razing it down, holding it under until at last it stops struggling, goes limp, drowns; and then I collapse, I shut down, I feel nothing.

I take a shaky breath in the wretched silence of the elevator and try to collect myself. My ears ring with the sudden stillness and I breathe, as if it’s my first breath, as if I’ve never breathed before. I take great gasps of air, till I’m like to choke, and hold them to the brink of suffocation; I breathe, and I treasure each breath, and I know that I am still alive.

“It’s too much,” I say softly, out loud and to myself, and the emptiness in me feels just as smothering as the rush of heat and loss and sadness had a moment ago. It’s true: it’s too much. I’m overwhelmed. After all these years, I thought I was dead inside, but it turns out that the thing that’s dying is the numbness that’s helped me survive this long.

For now, I focus on breathing. I focus on breathing and the task at hand; I narrow my vision down to that one single goal. All the other plates I’ve got, I trust them to keep spinning on their own for a little while. I don’t know what to do with myself, if I take the plates away, if I trust the plates to anyone else; I’d fall apart. The only way I know to cope is to take on more work, more responsibilities, but I am nearly spent. It is only a matter of time until I stumble, until I slip up, until things begin to fall and shatter. As they say, something’s got to give. I need something, something to get by.

I can do nothing but go to the source. Everything was fine, _I_ was fine, until Adam came along. So if I want to be okay again, it’s Adam that I’m going to have to deal with. I take a long slow breath through my mouth, and let it out slowly through my nose. Right now, that is the summation of my capabilities. Just calm, simple breathing.

The elevator comes to a smooth stop, doors opening with an inoffensive hiss. I gather myself, flick imaginary link off my jacket, and step onto the third floor.

Say what you will for the first step; in the end, it isn’t that hard.  
 

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	24. Adam

By the time we stumble into the lobby of our five-star hotel, there are only a few hours till sunrise, only a few hours till our train leaves the station, and we haven’t yet been to bed.

It’s been a hell of a night.

The concierge fixes us with a spiteful look. That is because we’re drunk, and reek of night clubs, and Peter is hanging on my arm in an unseemly way, laughing so hard he’s in tears. I slip the concierge a large handful of crumpled yen. He gives the yen a look like it’s offending his sense of good taste as much as we are, but the sum is close to three hundred dollars, and in the end he pockets it with a scowl.

“Ask him—ask him how much it is to buy a smile,” I slur to Peter with that typical drunken sense of urgency, but Peter has the sense to just laugh—or maybe not enough sense to translate, it’s hard to be certain. The concierge hands over our key and says something in Japanese. I recognize my last name, but nothing else. Peter’s too drunk to be useful, so I have to assume it was a pleasantry and shrug it off.

We make it up to our room without incident, except for Peter informing an unsuspecting man in the elevator that if his cologne was any stronger Peter personally would suspect he was trying to cover the smell of the puke that was about to be in his shoes. In a grandfather-clause sort of way, this almost made sense. The room itself is large and clearly worth the exorbitant fee Mercer International is paying for it, but twin queen beds or not, the fact remains that the idea of sharing a hotel room was much less awkward before Peter revealed himself to be a cuddly drunk. He’s drunk enough that he collapses immediately onto a bed, and I think I’ve dodged the bullet. I should know better.

It’s not that I’m sober, or that I’m not so attracted to Peter being around him is just this side of pain; and it’s not some bullshit about commitment or still being torn up about Hunter. It’s that every time Peter leans close to me, hoping for a kiss, I pretend to ignore the suggestion, because it’s never his lips I’m thinking of. There’s a part of me I could probably blame for it, the part that thought I was _meant_ to be with Hunter, ad infinitum, semper fidelis, ad nauseam; and that same whimsical part of me keeps insisting that Peter doesn’t _feel_ right; that he’s meant for someone else. That we both are.

I’m not the sort of man to let that get in the way of a casual lay, though. I’m sure Peter will find his Steve or his Patrick or his whoever in good time. No, the problem is that I don’t think I’d be able to stand sleeping with a creature as breath-taking as Peter while imagining Jade. If I don’t have a guarantee that Jade will be not be what crosses my mind when I climax, well, I won’t ever have sex again, if that’s what it takes. He doesn’t want me, doesn’t care about me, and I’ll be fucking damned if I let him win an awful game he doesn’t even know he’s playing. If sex is the final act of devotion, the physical proof that he has become the only thing that matters, I won’t have it. I won’t touch a man again—and you’d think, that that is surer devotion than sex ever could be, but you’d be wrong. You’d never have felt this way, never have known this hell, if you could think that, if you could not understand the illogic of chastity as malfeasance, as rebellion, as an outcry. This is the only defiance that’s left to me.

Peter, oblivious to my inner monologue, is stretching like a cat, rolling on the bed. Being drunk, that thought spills out of my mouth, leaving any semblance of eloquence behind. “You look like a cat,” I say, and even to me it sounds lurid.

Peter giggles. “I’m a kitty,” he purrs. “A _sex_ kitty. Won’t you come play with me?”

I turn colors that haven’t even been invented yet. This may be the first time they’ve occurred in nature. I’m sure there’s a scientific journal I should alert, data I should record. If only I had the equipment. Peter is outgoing, sexy, and fun—almost the polar opposite of Hunter, who was intense and passionate and controlling. He’s the opposite of Jade, too; Jade is dark and serious and clever, more challenging in one moment than Peter’s been in his whole life. I try to be relieved at the light, irreverent companionship, but I’m not. The fact is, maybe Peter’s the opposite of me, too. He’s undriven, unsuccessful, mediocre and okay with it—being fun, being easy, being beautiful, it’s not enough. It’s not what does it for me, no anymore. Maybe it never was.

Peter makes eyes at me, and my enthusiasm is gone. It wouldn’t even be sex; it’d be taking advantage, and I have no appetite for that. Unless Peter rolls over and reveals a big, gaping, complicated emptiness forged into his chest, a tormented core, some awful blackness lurking behind his eager-to-please exterior, well, I’m out. It’s not a fair decision, but looking at him and knowing how utterly unlike me he is, I know we don’t have a chance at anything bigger than tonight. He would never be able to understand any of it. Thinking it exhausts me. I’m exhausted; there is only one thing I would dearly like from Peter, only one thing he can give me, and it most certainly isn’t intercourse.

I don’t want to play, I want to lay down next to the warmth of someone’s, anyone’s, body, and sleep—really sleep.

Peter rises to his knees so he can tug playfully at my arm. He raises his eyebrows, drunk and pretty and trying his hardest to be seductive. He plays it like an ill-suited part; he’s not insincere, but I don’t buy it. This isn’t who he really is; this is who he wants to be. If he were sober, and still wanted to fuck me, I’d ask him why. Why he is trying so hard. What about me he gleaned from our shallow flirting that he liked enough to take to bed. If he had any idea how cold and angry I really was, or if he’d been fooled like everyone else.

I don’t ask any of that. “Shall we have a drink first?” I ask instead, pulling a pair of mini-bottles of tequila out of the tiny fridge. My plan is a little fuzzy around the edges, even to me, but I think I intend to pump him full of alcohol until he either passes out cold or drowns. I’d prefer not to kill him, of course, but that’s between him and his liver. It’s really not my business.

It takes three and a half mini-bottles and a protracted amount of foreplay before Peter’s unconscious. I ease him between the sheets and turn his head to the side, as a precaution against death by vomit. Really, I’m a very considerate person. He’s accomplished what he set out to do, though; just in time for alcohol poisoning to kick in, I have the kind of erection impossible to ignore. I won’t envy him come morning, but for the moment I’d love to be half as dead to the world as Peter is.

The redirection of my blood flow is hard to discount. I could seek a sloppy end, but the very thought of it repels me. Anyway, we all know who’d be on my mind. Given the choice between sodomizing a catatonic Peter, lonely masturbation, and giving my erection the cold-shoulder, I vouch for the latter. I scan the mini-bar price list to distract myself. What’s less arousing than finances? I study it with interest and discover what I’m paying to enjoy Peter’s snoring falls just short of extortion.

In the end, I slip into bed next to Peter’s potential corpse and turn on the home shopping network, which is the only thing in English. I succumb to sleep only moments before I’m convinced the NuviFresh skin care system is the miracle cure for crow’s feet I’ve been searching for.

 

 

I let Peter sleep as long as possible. Maybe it’s cowardice, maybe it’s consideration. No one knows. I indulged in a good thirty seconds on REM before our scheduled wake-up call. I didn’t understand a word of it, of course, but it got me out of bed. Peter did not so much as stir. He really might be dead. Tequila is leaking out of my pores, which seems more important, so I take a quick shower and don yesterday’s clothes, which are admittedly worse for the wear. When we have exactly forty minutes left to board our train, I harangue Peter out of bed. I’ve beat my hangover back into the abyss by chugging several liters of overpriced water, but Peter’s less fortunate. He comes to with all the grace, and far less eloquence, of a zombie raising. As if it’s part of his usual morning routine, he vomits in the shower and brushes his teeth. I pay our bill and we’re in the taxi before he speaks. He tells the cab driver the name of the station and puts his head between his knees. It’s my personal opinion he should be grateful he’s alive, but I keep that to myself. Some people just don’t react well to attempted homicide.

He’s quiet except for the odd mewl, if there’s a particularly large bump or if our unsympathetic driver leans on the horn. I’m not sure what to say. Even in wrinkled clothes, smelling of vomit, and unshaven, Peter is a pretty picture. A little bleary-eyed, a little ruddy; but he’s warm, full of life. He’s _human_ , and not pretending to be anything. It’s ironic, but I’d finish this morning what I poisoned him to get out of starting last night. He’s flawed, this morning; he’s a miserable mess, and now I want him. My timing has never been impeccable. The exterior is cracked and he’s human inside, more human than Jade could ever dream to be, and I’m tired of lagging at the heels of the immortals. When he lifts his head I catch his face in my hands and I kiss him, light and sweet. He looks surprised, almost incredulous.

“I thought you only slept with me because you were drunk,” he says, voice soft with astonishment. The nice thing about being in a foreign country is that you can discuss these things in a cab without the cab driver understanding what he’s overhearing.

Peter is surprised I kissed him? Well, that’s nothing compared to how surprised _I_ am that he thinks we slept together. I don’t know quite what to say, and his face falls.

“Oh, no, was that a remorse kiss? Did you kiss me just to make me _feel_ better about you only sleeping with me because you were drunk?” Peter lets out a sound that is half-laugh and half-moan. He sounds bewildered and miserable. “It’s true, isn’t it? I _am_ too easy. God, I’m going to fuck my way through the entire payroll if I keep this up!” He does his sort-of laugh again.

I wince. If I tell him we didn’t sleep together, he’ll think I’m lying to save face. And anyway, this time around I do actually want to, so it’s not really so much a lie as it seems. More of a courtesy. It makes both of us feel better about ourselves; why would I undo it?

He’s dropped his head into his hands. His long, wet bangs fall in front of his face, and he’s a frozen moment of perfect sadness, self-loathing, scorn. It only takes an instant for me to fall in love—not with Peter, not really, but with the reflection of myself. We are all narcissists. Some of us just bury it more deeply than others.

“I kissed you because I wanted to,” I tell him, hoping I sound sincere. I almost am—almost, because even if the words I’m saying are the absolute truth, I don’t believe them. Not really. “You look beautiful this morning.”

Peter’s mouth twitches with a peculiar kind of smile. You can almost see the next layer of innocence slide down from his shoulders to crumble around his ankles. “Now I _know_ you’re full of shit,” he rebuffs under his breath, but the betrayal in his eyes, the self-hatred, is gone. He believed me—why shouldn’t he have? It was the truth.

The train ride is spent with Peter snuggled up to me, his head on my shoulder. It sets my nerves on edge. My teeth grind. As quickly as I was smitten, the spell is broken. Once upon a time, sweet, sensitive, stunning Peter would have been more than perfect for me—he would have been a godsend, a fucking blessing. But to me, the way I am, he is a burden—an annoyance. I had an out—he _gave_ me an out—and I diffused it. So now that I’m stuck with him, I can either enjoy him—or trample on his feelings, his sensibility, his self-esteem. And isn’t his life broken enough?

Peter sighs happily and I feel a tiny pang of guilt for the way he disgusts me, but in the end Hunter was right. I _am_ a corporate zombie. I may walk and talk and even _look_ alive, but I’m really just dead inside.

I guess my only excuse is that I learned from the best.

But there’s Jade again, and I don’t want to think about him. My only consolation is that the bullet train bringing us ever closer to him has Peter on it, too; Peter, who thinks we slept together. Peter, who thinks I care for him. Peter, who will shield me from everything I’ve ever thought or felt for Jade—or at the very least, make him jealous.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	25. Jade

I wake up on the futon with a splitting headache. I try to move, but my left arm is trapped. I glance over and find my son sprawled next to me, my arm numb and lifeless under his back. Isaac is on the other side of Em, flat on his back with the two Playstation controllers resting on his stomach. I notice for the first time that it’s no longer the smooth, flat expanse my memory provides; and as he sleeps, I find twists of grey in his soft red hair, see the lines around his eyes and mouth for the first time. For years, I’ve been blind; but Isaac has grown old the same as I have. Isaac isn’t the boy I remember, isn’t the boy I want him to be. Maybe never was.

I try to slip free without jostling Emmanuel, but you have less dexterity than you’d think with a dead left arm. He stirs and rolls over, and I take a moment to study him as well. Sleeping and peaceful, he looks less like the hellspawn he is in waking life. In fact, looking at his young, serious face, I see myself for the first time. Boyish, and too solemn for his own good; he has the same sharp cheekbones and swollen lips I see every morning in the mirror. His hair is darker than mine, but with the same sloppy wave; I try to remember him younger, before orthodontia, whether or not his teeth were as big and crooked as mine used to be. I feel something like fondness swell up in me, a sliver of warmth in my gut. He’s so still and calm in his sleep, I almost _like_ him. God, one day of this father-son bullshit and I’m already going soft. I try to think of it as a good thing, I really try.

“He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” Isaac’s voice shatters my reverie. I’ve been watching him longer than I thought if Isaac’s woken. He’s always been a heavy sleeper. I’ve somehow shy, uncertain, seeing him for the first time in eighteen years for who he is really is.

“It’s a shame you never had any,” I say quietly, carefully, not looking to offend. “Then you’d know better.”

Isaac chuckles softly, trying not to wake Em. “Did we stay up too late playing video games, Dad?” he teases. “What time is it?”

Last night, a big part of me had wanted to go to Isaac’s hotel and tell him what exactly I thought of him, what I’d felt and kept silent about for years, tell him how I did for Adam what I could never do for him, how I broke my vow to a vicious, imaginary god, how I cheated on my wife and not with him, how the legal consult had suggested an annulment to my marriage, a way of saying it doesn’t exist, it’s never existed. I wanted to spill every truth at his feet, and let him make sense of it, make things right again, tell me what to do; I did not. Instead, I brought him here, because any space Emmanuel occupies becomes neutral to the long history of the two of us, of Isaac and me. We ordered a pizza, which was putrid compared to the stuff they make in Chicago, and we played Em’s video games and talked about silly, empty things, until we slept. This morning, seeing Isaac for who he really is, I’m glad. I’m glad I didn’t pour cruelty and spite into a confession spit at his holy toes. If I had gone to the hotel, anything could have happened—but we came here, and nothing did. I made sure of it. If you crush the eggs before they hatch, there will be no dragons; that’s the way I’ve been living for, perhaps, too long. At the very least, rampaging dragons have the habit of making your heart beat.

I check my watch, a Christmas present from my wife years ago. It came swathed in velvet. I can still remember my father’s watch, the antithesis of this one, warped leather and a cracked face, its ticking next to my ear when he leaned over the bed to kiss Smith and I goodnight, sounding weary and erratic. The drawn-out seconds always sounded as if they were making extra time, adding moments and pauses that weren’t there, that shouldn’t be there. We lived in 25-hour days, ruled by stumbling seconds; I always felt it was breaking the rules. I frown at the memory. If it had been up to me, I’d have thrown the watch away, but despite the expensive pearl-inlaid replacement I gave him once, years ago, he still wears it. I stopped trying to change my parents, after that. I focused instead on changing me. If they didn’t want to keep up, I was all too happy to leave them behind.

“Are you okay?” Isaac asks. I’m not, but I can’t tell him that. I’ve never been okay. Why my father’s watch, why now? It seems important. I haven’t seen him in so long. It doesn’t make any sense.

“It’s half past eight,” I say, as if it answers everything, and I am instantly relieved Adam’s still in Tokyo, won’t catch me coming in late. “We’ve got to hurry.”

I roll off the futon, kicked suddenly into overdrive. Isaac removes the controller from his growing gut. “Slow down, Puget,” he urges, with affection in his voice. “You’re the boss. You make the rules, right? You aren’t late, they’re early.”

I’d like to explain to Isaac that by saying the rules don’t apply to me I’m saying they aren’t real rules, that anyone can bend them with a good enough excuse, that I don’t work as hard the people under me, that I’m worth more because more people have heard my name, that I’m don’t deserve respect. Isaac’s let success go to his head—and his gut. But lifestyle is no excuse, no exception. If I don’t abide by the rules, what rules are there? Why should anyone else?

Just like that, I’m angry. The pit of inconsolable rage that burns just beneath my perfectly hollow core, making every breath of serenity a struggle, opens up and starts to flow below my skin, igniting me, making me tingle with the electricity of it. “Isaac, I cannot concede this point,” I say, as if my fingers aren’t inching into fists, as if it’s not a struggle to keep from gritting my teeth. And I must be good at emanating calm I don’t feel, because Isaac doesn’t sense so much as a ripple in my serene waters, let alone the tidal wave bearing down on him.

Isaac shrugs, and I mechanically return his easy smile. “Whatever you say, boss,” he says, and the words grates over my skin. “I’ll get in the shower.”

It’s my shower, and I know he’ll take longer than I would, and it’s true—I should get to go first. But Isaac’s natural sense of entitlement, the one that comes from growing up rich and righteous and adored, that one that has always kept me competitive, struggling to be the best, ignores that logic. If I weren’t so angry, it wouldn’t bother me. As it is, it’s hard to shake off. Isaac doesn’t, after all, know me like we always thought he did. Oblivious, he marches through my bedroom, into my bathroom, audacious enough to whistle tunelessly as he does it.

My sulk is interrupted by the unobtrusive ringing of my Blackberry. I dig through those damn throw pillows and the tangle of sheets for my phone. I hurry, not because I have missed-call anxiety, but because I don’t want to wake Em. That’s unlike me, very unlike me, thinking of others like that.

I finally find and answer the phone in a hushed voice, still being considerate. Maybe I’m ill. “Jade Puget,” I nearly whisper.

“Mr. Puget, are you all right?” It’s Masi. He’s out of breath, speaking rapid Japanese. I worry that I’ve given him a heart condition. I have never been late to work before in my life. Dear God, he must think I’m dead.

“I’m okay, Masi,” I say, and it’s hard not to laugh. Someone has clearly planted the thought in my head, because it’s sure as hell not mine, but it’s flattering—almost sweet that Masi’s so panicked because I’m half an hour late. “I’m escorting Mr. Mercer to the office today. Is breakfast ready in the banquet room?” That breakfast thing, I just came up with that, just made it up. I’m starving, but we don’t have time to eat, not unless Isaac discovers he has wings in the shower. Besides, the mad scramble that will doubtless ensue my brand-new request will distract everyone from my late arrival. But there’s a reason Masi is paid so well.

“We anticipated such a need,” Haiyen’s somber voice comes over the line. Wonderful—I’m on speakerphone. “Breakfast, American breakfast, is being laid out as we speak.”

“Thank you,” I say simply. I don’t thank either of them enough, and they work harder than I do—after all, they have to keep their finicky bastard of a superior happy and anticipate his needs on top of doing their work flawlessly, and all _I_ have to do it be a finicky bastard.

There is silence on the line. I think I’ve stunned them into it. That’s enough warmth out of me, then. “I’ll be in shortly,” I say briskly, hanging up the phone before they get the wrong idea about me having feelings.

Before I really even know what I’m doing, I’ve opened my phone’s address book and scrolled to a number I never thought I’d dial. I hesitate, don’t know why I’d call him now, after all this time. Maybe it’s because of everything that’s happened, because I’m lost and alone and sick at heart, because I’m ending my marriage to my illegitimately pregnant wife and Adam’s off somewhere fucking Peter Whent and Isaac, who kissed me once and never did it again, isn’t anymore who he was eighteen years ago, who I need him to be, and maybe I still am, because for the first time in years I’ve felt something and I don’t know what to do with it, because for the first time in a long time I need someone to talk to and there’s no one. Maybe it’s the watch that came so suddenly to mind; I don’t know. I’m reaching out. It’s not my best thing, so I try not to overthink it. Before I can talk myself out of it, I dig my thumb into the call button and listen to it ring.

“Who the fuck is this?” he answers groggily. It’s probably the middle of the night in East Bay; I didn’t even consider it. That’s not like me. It’s almost funny that he doesn’t know who I am, that he doesn’t even know my number, but not in a way that makes me feel like laughing. I have his home number, his cell number, his work number, his wife’s work number, their address, and each of their birthdays programmed into my phone. True, maybe I don’t use them, but I have the information to contact him at any hour of the day, in any circumstance. And he doesn’t even know my primary number.

My throat is dry and comes out low and raspy. I’m tense, so tense. What if he just hangs up on me? I lick my lips. “It’s me,” I say, knowing that means less than nothing. “It’s your brother.”

There is a pause, a hard silence, before Smith laughs. It’s an awful laugh, one that makes all the skin try to crawl off my body and hide somewhere, leaving my meat to shrivel and rot. “The living one, I presume?” he asks bluntly.

His words hit me in a wave of nausea and throw me for a moment. I didn’t call to talk about him. Truth be told, I don’t know why I called at all—but it certainly wasn’t to talk about him. “It’s Jade,” I say, more softly, so there can be no feigned mistakes, no more knives into my unsuspecting gut.

Smith’s voice comes back as hard and brittle as glass. “Well, I know you don’t need money, but I always thought I’d get a call from Gibson before I heard from you. So tell me, Jade. What the hell do you want from me?”

Even hearing his name makes me flinch, makes my gorge rise, makes the reason I slept on the floor next to Emmanuel’s crib for the first two years come rushing back. Gibson was only a baby, barely two years old. One moment he was there, tiny and laughing and so unbelievably bright, and the next…

I swallow it down, like I always do, like I’ve always done. I haven’t thought about him for years. I’d almost, _almost_ forgotten. I try to breathe, even and calm and so, so cold, and my heart slows. My head clears. I tell the truth.

“I don’t know, Smith,” I say, and then I laugh a little in disbelief. I can’t believe myself, that I’m doing this. “I guess I… I guess I wanted to talk.”

Smith laughs and I am getting tired of the brazen sound of it. Maybe this is why I can’t reach out. Not even my own goddamn brother has any faith in me. No; that’s an excuse. Smith has nothing to do with it—nothing to do with anything, really, because somewhere along the line I’ve pushed him out and he’s stopped caring about me. That’s okay—I’ve always looked at relationships as obligations, family as people claiming pieces of your life and naming debts for you to fulfill. And I’ve created a world where I am isolated, alone—perfect. Except it’s not, after all, so perfect as I thought it would be, and now that I’m trying to get out I don’t know how, and no one’s left to help me. No one except Adam—and I ran him off, didn’t I? I threw him into the arms of Peter Whent, never so be seen again.

“You made it clear what this family meant to you a long time ago,” Smith says scornfully. I’ve been so busy being a heartless bastard, I wasn’t there to see my baby brother turn into one too. “Why would I want to talk to you?”

I sigh, dropping my forehead into my palm. My elbow rests on my knee and I shake my head. “They say you reap what you sow, but I never thought I’d mind it,” I say, not really for his benefit, not really for mine. “When you’re hollow inside, what’s a little more emptiness? But God, Smith, this… this is nothing like I’d have imagined, if I’d imagined it.”

Smith is quiet for a moment, and when he finally speaks his voice is tired in a way that has nothing to do with being woken in the middle of the night. “So what you’re asking for is the benefit of the doubt?” he asks.

“If I’ve hurt you, Smith, I never meant to,” I say, which is not really an apology, but mostly true. I never set out to hurt anyone—pain was, is, too frivolous a thing to devote my time to. I just tried to get the hell away. I just tried to distance myself from anyone who made me feel anything—and if it hurt them, and I saw that they were in pain, I only despised them for being so weak, so paper-thin, so transparent.

“Bull _shit_ ,” Smith snorts, sounding more like the brother I remember. “You’re a fucking cunt and everyone knows it. Say what you want to say and be done with it, Jade, I’m not going to sit here all night.”

I hear a tinny voice in the background. It’s a woman—Elodia, Smith’s wife is called. I’ve never liked her more than when she says, “Did you just call your brother a cunt, Smith? You can’t do that.”

“I’ll call my brother whatever I want!” Smith’s voice is more muffled as he turns his mouth away from the receiver to protest his wife’s reproach.

“What if he called you because he’s going to kill himself?” Ellie hisses, and I like her a little less. “Do you want the last thing you said to him to be ‘you’re a cunt’?”

“I’ll carve it on his tombstone myself!” Smith exclaims indignantly.

“Truly, this is heartwarming, but I have a question,” I interrupt, and I can’t help but cringe at what my dear brother’s saying. Have I really been such a monster? Smith and Ellie both fall silent, but he doesn’t apologize. I respect him for that, I suppose; when you mean what you say, you don’t apologize for it, especially not to appease your cunt of a brother. He’s more like me than I remember. There’s no preamble; I just ask. “Why do you hate me so much?”

There’s silence for so long I think he’s hung up on me. Then I hear Ellie murmur, “Tell him, Smith. Just tell him.”

“I lost two brothers, not just one,” Smith finally says. “Gibson, though—he at least left something behind, left a headstone and mourners and… memories. But you left on purpose and took everything with you. I don’t even know my nephew, Jade. Dad doesn’t know his own grandson. You _abandoned_ me, turned your back like you were ashamed, and you left. You hated me long before I hated you.”

What can I say to him after that? That my arrogance has been a virtue and not a vice? Somehow I doubt that’s what Smith wants to hear. He probably doesn’t even want an apology. I could hang up the phone, and I almost do, because it feels like there’s nothing else left, nothing I can possibly say to this man, this stranger, except to tell him he’s right about me.

But there is still something I need to know. “How’s Dad?” I ask. The word tastes strange on my tongue.

“Sick,” Smith says, one sharp, jarring word. I swallow too hard, try to make it mean something, try to feel anything.

“Does he still wear that watch?” I ask the man who used to be my brother.

I brace myself for that ugly laugh, but it doesn’t come. Smith speaks seriously. “No,” he tells me. “He wears the one from you.” Smith pauses, and says his next as though it’s difficult for him. Maybe it is. “He’s as stubborn as he always was. No matter how long Mom and I spend trying to talk him out of it, he’s still proud of you.”

And for the first time in years, I learn something from my father.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	26. Peter

I’m not an idiot. Oh, I know that’s hard to believe, coming from me, especially when I leap into bed with anyone with a title and a smile; but I’m not stupid.

What I mean to say is, I know Adam doesn’t love me. I know I haven’t found a home in his arms. I know we won’t be together forever, know he has no intention of keeping me. And maybe, after what happened in New York, Adam is the worst thing for me. Maybe I’m only going to end up with a freshly broken heart and a hangover. I mean, that’s the absolute worst case scenario, right? If he was a serial killer, I’d be dead in a hotel room now, so I figure that one’s out.

The thing is, all of that is beside the point.

Right now, the only thing that matters is that Mr. Mercer is in the boardroom on the seventh floor, _waiting_. If I need Adam to tell me I’m beautiful, if I need Adam to want me, to be able to stand in that room and not piss myself, well, that’s not so bad. That’s not so terrible.

I stand at Adam’s back, half-hidden behind his left shoulder. I keep my respectful distance, trying to keep my face as blank and professional as his as I coast along in the wake of his long, purposeful strides. I don’t even look at his ass, not until we’re alone in the elevator.

Adam half-turns towards me, and I expect a lecture, wait to be told how to act, as if I’ve never had an affair before. But if a lecture is what I had in mind, I’m disappointed; Adam squeezes my hand and lays a quick kiss on my cheek. The surprise must show on my face, because he breaks his mask to laugh softly. “Peter, you look aghast. Is there a policy about kissing in the elevator I don’t know about?”

I blush and cast my eyes to my reflection in the marble floor. “I’ve been a… a _mistress_ before,” I tell him, not sure why I should so defensive. “You aren’t protecting me by being nice.”

Adam raises a quizzical brow. “I wasn’t aware that was what I was doing,” he says blandly. “Would you prefer I was unkind?”

Now I’m flustered. Of course I want him to be nice to me. Of course I want him to do sweet things like kiss me in the elevator. But who am I kidding? We both know he doesn’t mean them. We both know he’s getting on a plane and flying back to San Francisco like we’ve never met.  
God. If I could remember sleeping with him, I’d regret it.

Adam gives me a small smile, more of a smirk than anything, as if he knows just how much turmoil he’s causing me, and clasps his hands behind his back. He stares straight ahead, and we are silent.

Adam steps off the elevator so purposefully I hurry to keep up with him; I don’t have time to brace myself before he breezes into the boardroom. I follow Adam; and then I see him.

The reason I left New York.

He’s perched irreverently on the corner of the vast conference table, laughing at something Mr. Puget has said. His suit jacket always got a horrible crease in it from his habit of sitting on tables like that, I remember. When he turned around, there would be a line across his back. I’d always itched to iron it, to make it right, as perfect as he always was. His green eyes sparkled and my heart speeds up at the sight of him.

I plow into Adam’s back. Apparently we’ve stopped walking. I missed that particular memo. I hear Mr. Mercer snicker and I’ve never been so humiliated. Except perhaps when I tried to end our affair and he laughed at me—laughed and told me I’d never leave him, that no one ever could.

That was right before he told me he’d hired me because of the way I looked. That if I wasn’t going to sleep with him, I wasn’t going to work for him, either. That my transfer went through before he realized I was serious and fired me is little more than my patent half-luck, an embellished coincidence. That it happened after he called me into his office and forced himself on me, well, that’s the other half of my patent luck.

Seeing him here, now, chills me to the bone. I’m so busy gaping at Mr. Mercer that it takes a while for me to realize Mr. Puget’s eyes are on me too, and they are unfriendly. Does he know? Did Mr. Mercer tell him? It’s official. I am a floozy. I’m a whore.

It takes the entirety of my flimsy willpower not to start pacing the length of the room right then. It looks roughly seventy paces long. I could make a hell of a circuit. I stand painfully still, scarce breathing, and wait for judgment to fall upon me with its iron sword. In the last second before speaking, I am spared—Mr. Puget’s eyes flick instead to Adam as he says sharply, “You’re late.”

Adam doesn’t flinch. “My reach has not yet extended to train schedule manipulation, I’m afraid,” he says coldly. Hearing Adam devoid of his captivating warmth reminds me of the warning he gave me about Mr. Puget. They must not get along at all.

Mr. Puget scowls, but only with his eyes. His face remains a smooth mask of calm. “Mr. Whent,” he says suddenly, without warning. It’s only after my name has shattered the air he looks to me. “I fail to see your necessity at this meeting. Unless I’m quite mistaken, all three of us speak English.”

“Of course, Mr. Puget,” I demur, but the sentence is only halfway out of my mouth before Mr. Mercer interrupts.

“You only want him gone because he’s prettier than you,” Mr. Mercer says. Mr. Puget isn’t pretty at all. He’s much too severe for such a feminine term. Maybe he was pretty when he was younger; now, though, he’s beautiful in the way tempered steel is. There’s a playful gleam behind Mr. Mercer’s eyes that’s impossible to trust. Even Mr. Puget looks more wary than annoyed. “Let him stay. Peter has always been… extremely obsequious. He greatly improves the scenery of the room, even you have to admit.”

“That would all be well and good,” Adam surprises me by speaking suddenly, angrily, “were Mr. Whent a potted plant. I’m sure he has business aside from being insulted to attend to.”

I’d be grateful for the intervention, but Mr. Mercer freezes me with his eyes. “Do you, Peter?” he asks softly, seductively. I am pulled down the tunnel of his gaze. Old lust, old guilt, old habit pin me to the spot.

“I-I—” I stammer, helpless.

“Isaac, would you please explain to me what’s happening? I seem to be the only uninformed party in the room,” Mr. Puget asks evenly. Mr. Mercer feigns innocence, but Mr. Puget’s too shrewd to believe it. Adam turns to me, eyes wide with realization.

“Is this what you meant?” he hisses. My guts turn to ice. He knows, doesn’t he? He knows. “Is _Isaac Mercer_ who you meant?”

Yeah. He knows.

I’m still locked in the tractor beam of Mr. Mercer’s emerald eyes. Adam’s sapphires can’t compete. Did they ever stand a chance? I don’t, can’t, answer.

The next thing I know, Adam is on the other side of the room, lifting Mr. Mercer off the conference table by his collar. “You bastard,” Adam spits. My heart stops. Mr. Puget is as frozen as I am. Mr. Mercer, for the first time I’ve ever seen, looks frightened. I wonder dimly what Adam’s going to do once he’s unemployed. Will he blame me? Because I can honestly say this is not my fault. It is _so_ not okay for him to blame me.

Adam pulls back his fist, level with Mr. Mercer’s chin, and I hold my breath for the blow. I get the feeling it’s going to shatter a lot more than Mr. Mercer’s jaw and it’s too late, it’s gone too far, there’s nothing anyone can do or undo that will stop it.

“Wait,” Mr. Mercer says. Wait. “I… Peter, I’m sorry. My comments were inappro—”

Adam’s fist slams into Mr. Mercer’s expensive teeth. The force of it reverberates through the room. Windows shatter, or at least should. Time slows down; I watch blood fly from shredded lips and knuckles alike. With a look on his face like he’d very much like to keep swinging, pounding away until all the blood is spilled and Mr. Mercer goes limp and a little after that, Adam releases Mr. Mercer’s collar. He crumples back onto the table with a gleaming red chin.

“It is not your _comment_ that was inappropriate,” Adam spits down at Mr. Mercer, shaking the sting out of his hand. “It was _fucking_ him.”

The silence is deafening. Mr. Mercer’s eyes, filled with terror, flick between Adam and Mr. Puget. Adam’s breath comes in thick, squeezing hisses that fill the room with his rage. I had no idea he was so angry, no idea he cared so much about me.

I’ve become unstuck, unfrozen. What I do next—

What I do next is not a decision, not a choice. It is the way I am, the way things are. The only way I can imagine them being. Mr. Mercer is not my soul mate, I know that—but neither is Adam. Without ever seeming to move—perhaps because, no matter how I’ve made things look, I haven’t—I am at Mr. Mercer’s side, putting his arm across my shoulders and helping him to his feet. I feel Adam’s disgust wash over me, but it doesn’t matter. It can’t. There’s no room for me to feel that. I am already feeling far, far too much.

“Mr. Mercer, are you all right?” I ask, fussing at his broken lip, pressing the decorative handkerchief from my decorative breast pocket to the torn frenzy of flesh.

Mr. Mercer’s eyes flash, anger, and he grabs the handkerchief and shoves me away. I stumble back into Adam, who makes no move to steady me. His eyes slip over me as if I’m not even there, even as I bounce off of him in the struggle to regain my footing. Both of the men who’ve just spurned me turn their eyes to Mr. Puget. Four eyes are filled with the same thing—a plea.

I can’t stand it a second longer. I bolt for the door, almost colliding with Haiyen on the way. Masi is close at his heels, and sees the tears slipping down my face. “Mr. Peter!” Masi says, sounding concerned, and Mr. Puget’s son widens his eyes at me.

None of it matters.

Like always, I run.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	27. Adam

My eyes lock into Jade’s, and they’re like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The amber has melted to reveal gold and slate, and they overflow with helplessness, with loss. For the first time ever, Jade is undone. He’s not plotting or planning—not even thinking. He just stares into me, through me, as if I’m something he can cling to to keep from drowning. I don’t see the anger I expected; instead I see an echo of a self long-forgotten, of a boy with a dream, of someone I can’t imagine Jade ever being. He’s lost and he’s frightened and it’s all he can do to keep his head above water.

Me, I’m feeling a little more than that. I’m a goddamn hero, a vigilante. I’ve come to the rescue of the weak, I’ve helped someone who couldn’t help himself. When all the hurt in the world was delivered to his doorstep, Peter flung open the door and welcomed it in. He’ll probably keep doing that until he’s hurt too bad to recover, till the knife severs tendons and tears apart nerves and he’s forced to find a new way to live. But that’s okay. I don’t mind. I’ll defend the defenseless, even if he’s only going to get hurt all over again. For the first time in a long time, I can say that I did everything I could.

Besides that, I punched _Isaac Mercer_ in the face. You don’t get much cooler than that.

Isaac’s blood, or maybe mine, drips from my limp hand onto the gleaming floor. The silence would buffet us upon its wings unto eternity, but Isaac speaks. His voice is thick. The blood on his lips bubbles. I expect him to call security, to have me fired for doing what was right, but he only has eyes for Jade.

The word he says is, “Please.”

Jade’s eyes fall on him like knives, hurt and confusion gone—or perhaps not gone, only hidden, buried for Isaac’s benefit. It makes part of me that’s far away wonder what he buries when he looks at me.

“Why is it,” Jade starts coolly. He uses a voice that would sound level and dangerous and composed if I couldn’t recognize the low note of hysteria in it. It’s the voice I used when I left Hunter. The voice of a man who has lost his whole word—a man who has no place, no point, nothing to ground him; the voice of a man who fears that with nothing to hold him down, he’ll be adrift forever. Jade repeats, “Why is it,” and the words quiver on his perpetually pouting lips. “Why is it that _every person_ in the _world_ that I care about is fucking _Peter fucking Whent_?”

Isaac makes a strangling sound. Whether it’s blood or tears, grief or pride, I can’t say, but he’s choking. The distant piece of me capable of thought wonders if that means Jade cares about me.

“I only had him because I couldn’t have—” Isaac tries to get out, but Jade has turned, is stalking towards him. He doesn’t stop until he’s inches from Isaac’s chest, towering over him and staring like he’s death itself into Isaac’s wet green eyes.

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ say ‘you’,” Jade hisses, threat seething as if his rage is a living thing. “I will kill you myself if you fucking say ‘you’. I was _yours_ , Isaac. Meat and mind, I belonged to you. _You_ choose Annette. _You_ married her. _You_ chose life without me—the least you could do is honor your goddamn vows!”

Isaac’s face flushes red and sudden anger pours off of him. My brain is shutting down. I can’t process the words they’re flinging at each other like bullets, like blood. “Like you haven’t been fucking interns on the side! I’ve seen the men you work with! Tell me you haven’t at least _sampled_ some of the sweet asses you have at your beck and call!” Isaac shouts into Jade’s face, gesturing towards me. At this point, I’m a posthumous part of the scene. Clearly, I’ve died, and this is the afterlife. How else could this be happening?

Isaac’s yelling makes him look weak. Jade keeps up his furious whisper, deadly and cold, and all the volume in the world can’t compete.

“I haven’t fucked _any_ one in fifteen years,” Jade flares. I wish I was deaf. I wish I wasn’t hearing this. I wish I really was dead. “And let me tell you, Isaac, the first person I take to bed after all this time—it’s not going to be you.” Isaac blinks too quickly, and I realize he’s fighting back tears. “It’s _never_ going to be you.”

I hear a muffled cry that hasn’t come from Isaac, hasn’t come from Jade, and I don’t think has come from me. I’m not entirely sure until I tear my eyes away from the horrific scene unfolding before me and turn to the doorway. Kagamo Masi and Haraka Haiyen, high-ranking associates of Mercer International, stand gaping. But the sound hasn’t come from them, either. Sunk to the ground, hugging his knees to his chest and crying, Emmanuel is the only onlooker who has understood every word. I cross the room to him without speaking a word, knowing that once I do the moment will break into sharp little pieces and he’ll scrabble to his feet in flight. Instead, I kneel down beside him and pull him into my own chest. Emmanuel doesn’t fight it. Instead he wraps his arms around me and cries, lets his hot tears soak into my shirt, and I let him. I’m glad. Glad to hold him, glad to be there, glad neither of us is alone.

Looking stricken, Haraka clears his throat. Eyes flashing, Jade spins around and takes in the group of us in the doorway. “Fuck,” he mutters, as if there’s a bad taste in his mouth. He glances back at the few tears on Isaac’s face and repeats it more loudly.

“What is so important you couldn’t knock first?” Jade asks icily. The shorter man, Kagamo Masi, works out the translation in his head before speaking a string of incomprehensible Japanese. The blood leaves Jade’s face in a rush. Dread fills his suddenly pallid eyes. “What did you do?” he whispers hoarsely, almost to himself. He says something brusquely in Japanese to Kagamo and turns his eyes on me. Emmanuel’s tears have subsided; his face is filled with terror, waiting to be punished, as he looks at his livid father. Jade looks through his son.

“It’s him,” Jade tells me, jerking his head towards Isaac and sounding almost calm. “He’s up on charges.”

“What for?” I ask, a little slow to shift into crisis mode.

“Quid pro quo trading. Tax evasion. Resisting arrest. Accounting fraud,” Jade lists casually. “To name a few.” He pushes through his executives and into the hall, throwing a surprisingly blank look back at me. “Aren’t you fucking coming? We’re going home.”

 

 

Interpol, fucking Interpol, detains us at the airport. They check our bags, like maybe Isaac Mercer is hiding inside. Jade gives them Isaac’s last known location—the boardroom, which I don’t think he’s fled—and his hotel room. They don’t let us board the jet until they have Isaac in custody.

The first time I ever get escorted by important police with my hands cuffed, and there’s no one there to witness it. That seems like a crime all in itself. But the terminal is empty.

The ferns, at least, have the decency to stare. The ferns absolutely _gawk_.

 

 

The plane ride is close to, but not quite, agony. Emmanuel falls asleep, drooling all over my shoulder. Jade eyes it disgustedly, but I don’t mind. We’ve been in the air for three hours, and Jade hasn’t gotten off the phone yet. He won’t even make eye contact with me. My arm is falling asleep, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult not to listen in. I’m dozing before he finally hangs up and sighs deeply. I wait for him to start another call, but he doesn’t. I crack open an eyelid.

“Oh, God, what am I going to do?” I hear Jade whisper. I don’t know if I’m allowed to be listening yet, so I don’t respond. The point is, I’m not trying to pretend to be asleep, but that’s how he takes it. Jade laughs, short and humorless. “The world goes up in flames, and you and my son are cuddling. Jesus, could you be any cuter? You’re a better fucking father than I am.”

Now, if I open my eyes and tell him I’m awake, I’ll be an asshole and we’ll both be embarrassed. So what can I do? I keep pretending to be asleep. I even throw in a little theatric heavy breathing, which is probably not necessary. “Is this what I get, for Ayumi? For Marissa? For you? The minute this company stops being my world, it’s taken away?” Jade does the little laugh again. I’m confused. Hell, everything that’s happened today has confused me; I guess a little more confusion shouldn’t be a surprise.

Suddenly Jade’s voice is a whole lot closer, and my deep breathing falters.

What he says next stops my heart. His voice is low, almost a growl, right next to my ear.

“You’d better fucking be worth it.”

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	28. Jade

The plates are starting to fall.

Isaac is incarcerated for the duration of his trial. The office is crawling with feds. They already have proof of Isaac’s accomplishments—from embezzlement to accounting fraud, he’s done it all—so I’m convinced they’re searching for the nails to my coffin, not his. I am met at SFO by squad cars. They take Adam and me into custody immediately. A lawyer Adam knows from somewhere shows up at the police station, and they’re forced to release us. To date, our only crime has been flying through international airspace in one of Isaac Mercer’s jets. The lawyer gives me his card, Matthew Holland, and advises me against relying on the company’s retainers. The entire company is under investigation. Using our own lawyers would be like when the Reagan administration conducted its own investigation. No matter what the verdict of the trial, everyone would assume we were guilty anyway. There is a good chance that, if I stay out of prison, I will never work again. There is a good chance that Mercer Pacific, my only accomplishment, my only goal in life, is sunk.

I’m forbidden to leave San Francisco until the investigation ends. They’ve done everything but put a house arrest bracelet on my ankle. I’m surprised I don’t have a parole officer. The Kyoto complex is remanded to the joint control of Haiyen and Masi. I came straight to the office from the police station. The pigs escorted Emmie home. I haven’t seen him since. The office is a flurry of federal interrogations and clients disassociating with us. We have made the ultimate commercial sacrifice. As an advertising firm, we know best that none of our clients should associate with us now that the head of the company has been indicted. PR is a nightmare. Hell, my whole life is a nightmare.

I don’t sleep. My own legal issues are as frozen as my assets. I am under full investigation. Mercer International stock is plummeting. Shareholders are pulling out. Some heinous reporter speculated that the Kyoto branch was a front for a money laundering scheme. As a result, we lost the Yamagato account. In Japan, the dishonorable hearsay and incriminating fact is a lot less excusable than it is in the States. Mercer International has been blacklisted. It’s only a matter of time until the Kyoto branch defaults. My empire is on the brink of collapse.

“Do I look like I have _time_ to eat?” I ask Adam irritably. Somehow I can almost blame this whole disaster on him. Almost. He’s standing in the doorway, in the same wrinkled burgundy shirt he’s been wearing since we left Japan—almost eighty hours ago. The sleeves are pushed up past his elbows, one much higher than the other. You can see the scar that twists his forearm so elegantly. He badly needs to shave, and he’s definitely smelled better. I haven’t seen his shoes in a day and a half. Showering is just not a luxury we have time for. His hair is rumpled from the number of times he’s snarled his fingers through it in frustration. He gingerly steps through my wrecked office. File boxes occupy every spare inch. He sets a pizza down on top of a seemingly sturdy pile of records. Matt Holland, Mercer International’s brand-new legal representation, has been with us off and on for the last fifty hours or so. It’s been twenty hours since he got here this morning; he, too, is looking a little worse for the wear, though most of his will to live seems to remain intact. I can’t say the same for myself. Matt grabs a slice, not looking up from his work. I won’t even look at the pizza. Once I acknowledge how hungry I am, the rest of my physical demands will kick in and overwhelm me. Adam keeps slinking off to nap on one of the couches. I haven’t enjoyed so much as a prolonged blink. There’s too much to fucking do. I take a mini-break, long enough for a sip of lukewarm coffee. I manage not to spit it out or gag on it, and swallow instead. Davey must have gone home. When he was here, the coffee stayed warm.

Adam plants his hands on my desk, leaning over it till we’re face to face. “When did you last eat?” he demands. I respond with a non-committal grunt, poring over yet another finance report.

“Jade,” he sets in, and I slam the report down with feeling. I stare murder into his eyes, which are bloodshot and glazed despite his naps. I must look like a heroin addict by now. We both pretend my hands aren’t shaking.

“I will eat three square meals a day,” I say through gritted teeth, “when I am in prison. So just fuck off.”

Adam scowls at me, not backing down. Juggling balking clients, sudden financial crises, heat from the board, endless reporters, and on top of it all keeping my name from being implicated in Isaac’s many offenses, has both of us a little on edge. Matt sighs and pushes his stack of files away, interrupting our mind-battle and killing the tension. I’m glad for that much. “Jade,” he says, as serious as his suit, his close-cropped blond hair, his goatee. “Your position here is not enviable. I’ll be straight with you. You’ve been meeting regularly with the accused outside of office property for the last thirteen years. Before that, you worked in the same office. Before _that_ , you were roommates in college. Even Newsweek knows you’re best friends. You and Isaac Mercer go way back; everyone in America knows you’re thick as thieves. There’s a new emphasis on the thieves part, isn’t there? If your associate Isaac Mercer doesn’t plead guilty to all of the charges, it’s going to take months in court and more than the average man’s share of luck to keep you from being implicated. You’re rich and good-looking and exactly the corporate scum a jury loves to hate. They’ll call you guilty because of what they read in the tabloids. They’ll call you guilty because they could never afford your suit. They’ll call you guilty because you have a nice smile, and fuck testimony or evidence; you’ll be guilty because they’re jealous. Because they feel better about themselves if they can hate men like you. You need Mercer to plead guilty. You need him to take full responsibility for everything if you want to get out of this.”

I think about this, chewing my lip. It’s a habit I outgrew in college. Suddenly, twenty years later, it’s back. It could have at least called first. Sent a postcard, maybe. Matt scoops some paperwork into his briefcase and stretches. “There’s nothing more I can do here,” he says honestly. Very honest, this Matt. For a lawyer, anyway. “An established record of integrity and excellence just isn’t enough to prove your innocence. I’m going to go home and get some sleep and look for a legal way out, though I can tell you already I’m not going to find one. I suggest you get some sleep as well; I’ll meet you back here at—” Matt looks at his watch. It’s four a.m. “I was going to say seven, but I need more sleep than that. Let’s say the business day resumes at noon tomorrow.”

I stand, and we shake hands. “Thank you,” I say, surprised to mean it. He hasn’t done anything useful yet. Why am I thanking him? Matt’s nearly at the door when Adam intercepts him.

“Send my regards to the new Mr. Holland,” he says. There’s a strange look on his face.

A goofy grin breaks out on Matt’s serious face. He squeezes Adam’s shoulder. “Thank you so much,” he oozes. “The ceremony was beautiful. I wish you could have been there! We did get the gift you sent. Thank you for that.”  
Matt is practically glowing. Adam looks ill. Matt’s face grows more somber as he adds, “How are you holding up? Hunter’s been staying with us ever since you-know-what. Do you think you two are going to reconcile?”

Adam snorts bitterly. “Never.”

Matt looks a little flustered. Adam’s Jekyll/Hide act just has that effect, I suppose. I’ve seen the show a few times myself, and it certainly never fails to surprise. “Right,” Matt says, put off. “Well, goodnight, boys. Get some sleep. What we’re looking for just isn’t here, so don’t kill yourselves trying to find it.”

Matt Holland leaves my office quickly after that. I have time to see the hall is dark; the overhead lights have shut off. Then the door swings shut, and what’s inside my office walls is all that exists. I suddenly find myself alone with Adam. He still stands next to the doorway, looking angry, looking lost.

Well, I’m lost too. I’m in no state to be the fucking rescue crew.

“What was that about?” I ask him, trying not to sigh out loud. I have to ask, and part of asking is pretending to care about the answer.

Adam’s face still looks funny. If I had any free CPU usage in my brain, I might be curious. “Matt’s blushing bride… he’s the one Hunter cheated on me with,” he says through gritted teeth. “And Matt… what right do I have to tell him his happiness is all a lie?”

“And you’re wondering which is worse,” I supplement boredly. “Losing everything, or living in oblivion.” This is the first time since Isaac’s arrest I’ve thought about anything unrelated to corporate intrigue and scandal. All we need is Peter Whent to come out with his story about their sordid affair and it will be the Clinton administration all over again. “Oblivion is bliss,” I mutter.

Even with Adam here, right in front of me, even with my annulment on the line, I can’t do it. I can’t take my mind off my impending arrest. Go figure. As always, when the moment of truth (or something like it) knocks at the door, I’m so wrapped up in the future—or perhaps the past—that I don’t even hear it calling my name. Or worse, I _do_ hear it; but I’m powerless to acknowledge it. Unable to act.

Most people don’t realize that Jade Puget is crippled. It just isn’t in any way you can see.

I drag my hands through my hair, which is getting greasier by the second, and exhale too forcefully. Adam stops blathering mid-sentence to look at me, his eyes and lips a question I simply cannot answer. “Jade?” he says softly. What the fuck does he want from me?

Abruptly as a spasm, I stuff the file I’m reading into my briefcase and slam it shut. “I’m going to prison,” I announce. I grab my coat and jog out the door before Adam can say another goddamn word.

 

 

I fly to New York.

 

 

Orange is just not a good color on redheads. Isaac stares at me dully through the glass and it’s a toss-up for who looks worse—and _he’s_ been showering regularly. He picks up his phone and speaks, voice flat and dead and droning. I can tell, just from the sound of it, he’s beaten. From here, he’ll do what he’s told. All I have to do is control the person who’s telling him. “Why do I get the feeling you aren’t here to rescue me?” Isaac’s bright eyes are encased in wrinkles, ringed in purple and blue. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in years.

I know the feeling.

Feeling: now there’s a strange concept. It’s been years since I’ve looked at Isaac and felt nothing. But now, while he grovels on his belly in the mud, lip still scabbed from where Adam didn’t hit him nearly hard enough, I don’t feel a thing. Not even disgust.

“I almost feel bad for you, you bastard,” I say into my own grimy telephone; my voice is as strangely blank as I’m feeling. There should be bitterness, anger, spite—but there’s nothing. I am a vacuum, a void. My voice is pale and frightening, if only for how impassive it is.

“Jade Puget feel pity? Surely you’re joking,” Isaac spits. I gather that he, somehow, has found a way to be angry at _me_ —as if I have destroyed everything we’d worked our whole lives for, for no apparent reason.

“How could you do this to the company?” I ask, still impassive. I don’t ask ‘how can you do this to _me_ ’. That question, I don’t give a damn about. It’s about the company—it always has been.

Isaac laughs. “You think I ever cared about the company?”  
That does surprise me. Mercer Pacific has been my whole life, my only goal, my one dream. That Isaac even once had another priority is inconceivable to me. He was just as passionate about it as I was, every step of the way. True, most of the ideas were mine, but without his money, without his enthusiasm, I’d still be a little man with large dreams.

Isaac speaks, and I am rapt. I listen. “I was never as ambitious ad you, Jade. Never needed as… as _much_ as you do. Everything we did for this company, I did for you.”

I consider hanging up my phone; hanging up and walking away and never wasting the time of speaking with him again. He’s a bastard and a liar and a fake and a thief, and worse than that he’s pathetic, he’s _pitiful_ , and the thing he was right about is that Jade Puget pities no one. Pity is just another way for people to own you, and I would like nothing more than to walk out of this prison and never acknowledge the filthy existence of my best friend of twenty-some years again. Of course, when we’re sharing a cell, that might be difficult to do.

So I stay seated. Instead of raging and running and spitting his name, instead of cursing him to the hell he deserves and leaving him here to rape and rot. “Does that include the fraud?” I ask instead. “Was the tax evasion for me, too?”

Sometimes decency is just not an option.

Isaac sneers at me through the glass. “You look like shit, Jade,” he says, and I suppose he thinks it’s an insult. Has he always been such an idiot? How have I never noticed it before? I almost vow right then to never get close to another person again, but that’s the opposite of where I want to be. That’s where I am now, and I don’t want to stay here.

“I’m not here to be petty,” I tell Isaac abruptly, swallowing disgust and loathing and rage neatly. “Isaac, I need you to plead guilty.”

Isaac’s tired eyes bulge like they’re going to fall out of his head, or explode. You tell me which is the more attractive option. What he does next is not a great omen for me and what I’m trying to accomplish here. He laughs. He opens his mouth and absolutely howls with laughter. “You think—you think I’m going to plead _guilty_ for this? I think by now I’ve skimmed enough money off the top I can afford a decent lawyer!”

I concentrate on not grinding my teeth. Adult braces were neither cheap nor especially enjoyable. I have paid too much for these teeth to ruin them. “I need you,” I repeat resolutely, “to plead guilty on all charges.”

Isaac’s laugh is louder this time, so loud that the guard in the corner of the room lays his hand on the butt of his gun. “You never used to be this funny,” Isaac wheezes, eyes streaming.

I frown. I didn’t expect this to go much differently, but I didn’t fly to New York against direct orders from the feds to be laughed at. “Let’s be reasonable, Zac,” I say, and my corporate voice comes out, smooth as honey, slick as butter, cold as stone. “You’re not getting out of this. You’re looking at five to ten, minimum, though parole will probably cut that in half. All your shares are going to be liquidated and go towards digging the company out. The whole time you’re in here, you’re just going to lose money, and meanwhile Mercer Pacific’s going to stagger into its grave. And if your jury isn’t sympathetic or your lawyer isn’t as good as you’re hoping, who knows how long you’re going to be in this place?” I glance around the room and mock-whisper, “When they fuck you in the showers, Isaac, do they use protection?”

Isaac’s eyes narrow at that. I keep talking. “At least these guys—inmates, in prison—are all nice, clean, people. Right? It’s not like anybody in prison would have HIV.”

“What’s your point, Jade?” Isaac growls at me. I can tell, just by the tone of his voice, that I’m scaring him.

“Don’t tell me your lawyer’s going to protect you from the other inmates, Zac. In and out in two years, is that your plan? Well,” I say, and let myself laugh a little, “it doesn’t take two years to get HIV, Isaac. In fact, if you find the right guy, I bet he could give it to you in about—” I glance at my watch for effect— “oh, I don’t know, a sweet ass like yours? Five, six minutes?”

To my credit, Isaac has gone white as a sheet.

“So plead guilty and stay in even longer, is that the point you’re trying to make?” he asks. His confidence is shaken, though. I can hear it.

This is my coup de maitre. “Plead guilty, and leave me out of prison with enough money and enough influence to keep you in the kind of place where your showering companions _are_ clean—or maybe no more than a washrag and a shampoo bottle.”

Isaac glares at me through the glass. “I don’t care what the fuck you say, Jade Puget,” he tells me nastily. “I’m pleading innocent as the day I was born and there’s not a damn thing you can say about it.”

I let my defeat show on my face. I look up at him and my eyes say, _that was all I had. That was supposed to work. What the hell am I going to do now?_ I look up at him and let him see he’s beaten me. And I ask in a dead, heavy voice, “Tell me this much. Did you do it?”

“All of it?” Isaac asks, looking pleased and a little surprised. He’s right to be. It’s not like me to let go so easily. I nod. There are no words. Isaac laughs. “And then some,” he says, cheeks rosy as they’ve ever been, voice full of laughter. “When I ran out of laws to break, I did things that aren’t even illegal yet, things that have never been done. They’ll spend years going through our financial records, and they’ll never find where all the money went.” He’s practically cackling.

If Zac’s celebrating, it’s the least I can do to show a smile. A small, soft one. “The thing about the coup de maitre,” I tell him quietly, letting that sickening smile spread, “is that it’s not the same as the coup de grace.”

And I press ‘stop’. And I take the tape recorder out of my pocket. And I set it on the ledge in front of me.

And through the glass, Isaac stares.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	29. Adam

With everything that’s going on, I should have plenty to think about. There should be plenty of things on my mind. Instead there’s just one: Jade. And suddenly I find that I’m okay with that. I’m more than okay with Jade being the only thing on my mind; in fact, sleep deprived and brainwashed by finance reports, I let myself think that, if Jade were the only thing on my mind for the rest of my life, that would be okay too.

I don’t have time to come to terms with that thought. I barely have time to register it. I get off the elevator, walk down the hall, and have my keys in hand before I look at my door.

Slumped at the foot of it, sound asleep, is Hunter.

I try to think of a way to get through the door without waking him up, but every scenario ends with him cracking his head open on the floor and me hiding a dead body. I’m not sure how to get bloodstains out of hardwood. My other option is picking him up and moving him—now, Hunt’s a heavy sleeper, but I don’t want to risk him waking up in my arms. There’d be no explaining that one. I don’t much want him in my arms, either. After all this time, it seems too much like asking for trouble. I briefly envision crawling from a neighbor’s balcony to my own, but I see only death. Far be it from Adam Carson to fling himself from a balcony; I am not _that_ desperate to avoid my ex. Well—maybe I am. But I’m also a big huge coward. Heights scare me. Hell, I’m quite sure, is a very, very high place with no railings.

I sigh. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but I’m going to have to find out eventually. The sooner it’s over with, I tell myself, the sooner I can finally get some sleep. But that doesn’t mean I have to be nice about it. I choose scenario A. I unlock the door and let it swing open, pushed by Hunter’s weight. He spills onto the floor, head hitting the ground sharply, and is step over him into the apartment. Blunt trauma to the head and a crotch shot of the man who left you: probably not the best way to wake up. That stopped being my problem when he started fucking Colin, though. Whenever _that_ was.

Hunter moans. I don’t turn around. I’m sorting the mail at my Ikea FUSION dining table. “Get off my floor,” I say shortly.

From the sound of things, Hunter scrabbles to his feet, cursing under his breath. His head must hurt. I’m used to giving orders and having them obeyed. That quality works its way into your voice and suddenly people are doing what you tell them to without thinking, without hesitating. That kind of obedience from Hunt, I could get used to.

“Matt said you asked about me,” he tells me. Matt left the office a few hours before I did. After the man I secretly covet announced his own incarceration, I spent a few hours putting the filing back in order. I didn’t know what else to do with myself, really. Finally exhaustion brought me here. I figure that gives Hunter about four hours to fall asleep at my door.

I hold an envelope up to the light and squint at it. Looks like a bill. There’s just no good news tonight. “Where did you get this address?” I ask brusquely, still not turning around.

“Adam, please,” Hunter tries to reason with me. I turn, bill still in hand, and stare flatly at him. He has one hand pressed to his spiky blond hair. His eyes are wide, blue, and sincere. “Please,” he repeats, staring at me, into me, through me. The way he used to. Only, I’m not there anymore.

“I,” I announce, “am exactly what you said I was.” And I turn back to my mail, secretly pleased with myself. Being mean is… fun.

“I know you aren’t!” Hunter says, still to my back. That’s the thing about Hunter. I did everything for him. I never stopped trying. But he never once thinks to even walk around the goddamn table so I _can’t_ turn away, so I can’t ignore him, so I have to look, to listen, to feel. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t make the effort. Worse, he probably doesn’t even _think_ of making the effort. He’s too busy being wounded that I won’t look at him. Why is he here, if not to fight for me? If not to try? If he’s here, why won’t he fight?

Pathetic. He always was. I just never saw it till now. Weak and sentimental, caring too much about everything else and never enough about me. Warm and soft like a jelly donut. Well, you try putting pressure on a jelly donut, see what happens. Fucking jelly everywhere.

“I was _wrong_ , Adam, okay? So stop pretending to be heartless to get back at me and let’s talk for a minute.”

“Talk?” I growl. This I turn around for. “Last time I wanted to fucking _talk_ , you had Colin too far up your _ass_ to say anything but his fucking name. The only one pretending here is you, Hunter. I gave you my everything and you didn’t want it; there’s no point in begging for scraps when I have nothing left.”

Hunter’s face is ashen and I’m glad. Right this second, I wish I _had_ fucked Peter, just so I’d have something to throw in Hunt’s face. Peter makes Colin look like a strip mall Elvis impersonator: cheap, out of shape, wrapped in pleather and past his prime. Hunter would never believe me, though. I’d have a better chance of convincing him I had an orgy with the Backstreet Boys. While N*Sync watched.

“Colin doesn’t mean anything to me,” Hunt protests, which he should know is a mistake. Haven’t all those Julia Roberts movie nights he subjected me to taught him anything?

“Then he was definitely worth throwing away everything we had for,” I say, but I say it mildly, like I’m calm, like I don’t even care. Of course, I do care—in truth, I’m grateful. Cheating on me was the nicest thing Hunt ever did for me. He set me free.

By this point I’m really only trying to cause him pain.  
Looking into his eyes is killing me. They’re so wide and wet and unreasonable. Doesn’t he understand what it means to be human? For one thing, you don’t walk around with looks like _that_ on your face. You don’t carry around a sign that says ‘I’m actually a jelly donut’ anymore than you tell fur protesters you also like to hunt, anymore than you hand out condoms after Catholic mass. It just gives people ammunition.

“It’s not like you to be so cold,” Hunter accuses, though he’s in no position to do that. What right does he have to accuse _me_ of anything? Well, I’ve found a few things out about myself while he’s been gone. One of those things is, it’s _exactly_ like me to be so cold. Being so fucking selfless I’m willing to let the most important part of me die for someone else’s happiness—well, _that’s_ unlike me.

I walk past Hunter and into the kitchen, flicking the switch as I go. “Want a beer?” I call back over my shoulder. Say one thing for Adam Carson, say he’s a good host. I should throw Hunt out on his disease-ridden ass. Instead, I’m offering him a beer. That goes above and beyond the call of generosity. In fact, it’s almost stupid, it’s so nice.

And then he says it. The last thing in the world I have ever, _ever_ wanted to hear. His voice is close, close like he’s followed me into the kitchen and has lost all concept of personal space, and shaky. “Adam, I ended things with Colin. I told him… I told him it was you I loved, and that we couldn’t be together anymore.”

You’d think a man who spent so much of our relationship outraged that he was denied the sacrament of marriage would be a little less eager to defile it. That’s not what I say, though. Instead I use a line I learned from Emmanuel. “What, do you want an award?”

Hunter’s face falls. “You can hear it in his suddenly hiccupy voice. I don’t have to turn around. “No, I… Adam, I need a place to stay.”

I sigh. I can’t help it. I close the fridge and hand him a beer. At the rate we’re going, he’s going to need it.

 

 

Hunter is curled into a ball on my couch. Half a beer and he’s out. His cheeks are flushed from giggling. His eyes shine. He rubs his face on a throw pillow and says, “I still love you, Adam.”

I am still nursing my first beer. After that comment, it’s half backwash. I’m just lucky none came out my nose when I choked on it. I have to be back at work in a matter of hours. Just because I’m not going back refreshed from sleep doesn’t mean I have to go back drunk. Still, after what I gagged on made it back into the bottle, I think I’m going to need another.

I’m sober and serious when I say, “I know.”

Hunter cocks his head to the side, waiting for it. He’ll be a long time waiting. But I think he knows that; and he has the good sense to get it over with quickly. There’s something to be said for ripping a Band-Aid off all at once. Maybe you lose a little more skin, maybe the pain’s a little sharper, but at least it stops stinging and starts healing. At least you don’t have a filthy, peeling strip of bandage clinging to your ghost white slug-swollen skin for days on end.

“Do you still love me?” he asks softly.

Although, you know, there’s nothing wrong with leaving the Band-Aid the hell alone, either. If you don’t rip it off and you don’t pick at it slowly, it’ll slide right off you all on its own in the shower sooner or later.

I think about my answer. Not because I don’t know it; not even because I want to say it gently. I guess I just feel like, after all the years I spent with him, I should at least think about my answer. Because this is it, for us: one last chance to go back to the way things used to be. One last chance to have it all back.

But things will never be how they were.

I’ll make sure of it.

“I fell in love with someone else,” I tell him, and I mean it. It’s true.

Hunter’s eyes are big and wet and once, maybe, lovely; he looks down at his lap, where his hands are knotted together. He bites his lip and nods. “Oh,” he says, pressing his chin against his chest as if he can hide there, curled up with his heartbeat, till the pain and danger passes. His voice is so soft I can barely hear it; he moves his head up and down in an empty way. “Okay. All right.”

I wish he’d look at me. I have every reason to hate him in a hot little line inside me, but right now I just feel sad. It’s not pity—it’s sorrow. I have sorrow for him, lost and confused as he is. But me, I’m not lost anymore. I’ve finally found some direction. “I’m sorry, Hunt,” I say, but I’m not apologizing, not really. “With everything that’s going on at work, with you and Colin, whether I still loved you or not wouldn’t… well, it wouldn’t really matter, would it? There’s no way you and I could work. I think this is… for the best.”

Hunter’s still staring at his hands, nodding mechanically. I set my backwash—I mean, beer—down on my coffee table (with a coaster, of course; I’m not a heathen) and walk over to him. I stand over him and feel no urge to touch him, even this close; I just look down. “Hunt?” I say softly, gently. I don’t know why I’m being gentle. I didn’t think that was a part of him. I didn’t think any of me cared about him anymore, but some of me must, or else why would I be so gentle? I don’t think it’s basic human decency. Sometimes it doesn’t really seem like I have much of that. He looks up at me, eyes red. “You can stay here and get some sleep. But this is temporary, Hunter. Only for today. All right?”

“Thank you,” Hunter whispers. It’s not enough, we both know it. FreshMart pays him next to nothing; if Colin threw him out and I won’t let him stay, where’s he going to live? How’s he going to pay for it? It’s not getting any warmer outside, and all of his friends are poor activists like him. One of the shelters he volunteers at? Or would he be too proud for that? What if he—

I am cold. I am stone. I don’t care.

I can’t.

I’ve come too far to go back now.

So I turn, and walk into my room. I take a quick shower, pack an overnight bag, and head back to the office. There’s no chance in hell I’ll be able to sleep now.  
 

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	30. Jade

I’m sure Isaac’s airstrip is being watched by the feds, but landing at SFO seems so overt—even too blatant for California. The list of things I have going for me right now is very small. I have lost track of how many days it’s been since I’ve bathed. I haven’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours. I am wanted by the federal government for the prostitution of my life’s achievement. I’ve just chewed up the limits of my unspoken parole and spat them straight to hell. I’m leaving my pregnant wife for the intern who’s sleeping with my translator. My company’s stock has dropped no less than 60 points in the few days, breaking records I never wanted to know existed. And my best friend of more than twenty years has betrayed me, betrayed me and ruined me and, let’s not forget, proclaimed his undying love. To save time, though, we’ll just say that I’m not feeling very fucking subtle. We fly into SFO, guns blazing, Mercer Pacific logo stamped on the tail of the jet, and I am looking for a fight, looking to flex the last bit of authority I have, looking for hell before it finds me. But we go unmolested. I’m back before the diligent agents assigned to watching me ever knew I was gone.

The truth is, I’m a little disappointed. It’s not that I’m feeling invincible so much as that I feel like I’m already dead; they’ve beaten me, they’ve killed me, they’ve won. Why else would I feel so alive? I’ve been stopped, and so I am unstoppable. I’ve been destroyed, and that makes me invincible. I won’t rise from the ashes, I’ll wallow in them—I’m untouchable now.

I’d like to go straight to the office and play the tape for Matt, but I’m a practical man, or at least used to be. I’m filthy, and my suit is so wrinkled it’s quite possibly ruined. Besides, Matt’s not due back at my office for another hour or so. I slip into the Z8, body aching, and let some of the pressure slip away as I race away from the airport. My reflexes are shot, probably from a combination of the stressors ganging up on me; I flirt with death more intimately than I ever have before. My heart beats and I feel it, maybe for the first time. I cling to the squalor but my body has other ideas. I rise up from the ashes. I make it. I live. Made new, and ready to be broken all over again.

That might be an exaggeration. It’ll take a lot more than a near-life experience on the freeway to rejuvenate me. I am a beaten man. Even when I outrun the charges, I’ll carry their stain. I have never been quite so tired. I feel like my father. I feel like his goddamn watch. I decide not to think about that. I turn on the radio to drown out my own thoughts. I aim for home.

Home—now there’s a peculiar word. Marissa’s fairytale manse has never been my favorite place in the world, but it’s been the place I have slept since Emmanuel was four. That’s eleven years; eleven years I have parked in that garage and ate at that table and drank myself sick in those darkened rooms. Eleven years of jerking off in that Olympian bathroom. Eleven years of empty nights. Whether you like a place or not, I can’t help but feel that spending so much of your life anywhere makes it a part of you. No matter how you spend them, don’t eleven years count for something?

I don’t know when I became so goddamn sentimental. The truth of it is, if I never had to go back to that perfect fucking house again, I wouldn’t give a shit. I’d want the Monet, I think—the Monet, and the scotch. I could care less about the Warhol. I bought it because I was young and suddenly rich, and what do rich people do with their money? They buy overrated, overpriced pop art. I bought my first BMW, spent several million dollars on an piece of ugly art, special-ordered handmade furniture from Austria, and funneled the rest into an ostentatious penthouse. The only thing I didn’t buy, when all the late nights and sunk money and humiliating failures finally paid off, was a trophy wife. I already had one of those.

I go up and up and up the driveway, which is another thing I hate about this stupid house. My office, my miniscule flat in Japan; I arc around the final bend and the house juts into view, eating up the horizon. I feel… nothing. It’s just a house, that’s all. A wasteful monstrosity of the frivolous rich—you know, the kind of pretentious assholes who buy Warhols because they have more money than they know what to do with, because how else do you let the world know you’ve come into money, and a lot of it? It ain’t easy, being new money. The house reeks of it.

I think about my company. What this house cost wouldn’t even make a difference among numbers like those. We’ve lost more money in the last four hours than I paid for this house.

At the same time, almost in the same thought, I realize it’s over for Mercer Pacific. It’s not a name anyone will trade under now. When you mismanage your own image so badly, no one’s going to pay you to take over theirs. I’ll have to downsize drastically, glean only the very best from the gargantuan staff we have smeared across the U.S., limit our clientele, find new investors, and definitely, _definitely_ change the name to pull out of this nosedive. Changing my own name wouldn’t be unreasonable either, under the circumstances.

Isaac’s tape will keep me out of prison, but it’s going to plaster my name across the newspapers. Even with an attention span as short as America’s, it’s going to be months, maybe years, before my name shakes the same stigma his is going to carry. I decide to name what’s left of my company after Emmanuel. I smile to myself as the Z8 coasts to a stop in the garage. That’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll salvage what I can, assemble it under the name Emergent Market—EM for short, like so much else that is significant in my life—and put myself at the head of the company. I’ll enact a system of checks and balances with the board that will doubtlessly hobble any radical progress until I’ve restored public faith; I’ll name Adam vice-president and we’ll launch overseas simultaneously, giving Masi and Haiyen control of the Kyoto branch. If I’m exceptionally lucky, no one will laugh in our faces. If hell freezes over and the Cubs win the World Series, we may even break even. It’s too soon to even think about profit indexes. What this is, is starting over—not from the ground up, but from six feet under.

If anyone can pull it off, it’s me. I don’t believe in modesty.

I actually walk in the door with a smile on my face, buoyed up by determination, by my unexpected second chance. That’s my first mistake. My second mistake, well, it’s probably running up the stairs and yelling, “Honey, I’m leaving you!” at the top of my voice. That one’s still up for debate, of course. It seems shaking a prison sentence has put me in high spirits. The uncertain delirium of starting over is infectious. I’m augmented by the mood; the words burst from me in a strange singsong voice I’m certain I’ve never used before.

I reach the landing and stop, waiting for Marissa’s inevitable screaming fit. I want to bask in it. But before the basking can commence, I notice a smear of blood on the blond wood. It’s vibrant, a sticky maraschino cherry red next to the deep burgundy carpet runner, not the way you’d expect blood to look. Somehow, though, I know it’s blood.

And then I hear the crying.

While I’ve been away, Marissa’s been turning one of the guestrooms into a nursery, all in pastels, yellow the color of trampled crocuses and the lavender so pale it seems to tremble with every breath. That’s where the sound is coming from, and as I head towards it I see another splash of blood on the floor.

Suddenly I’m running.

I race to the nursery, feet sinking into the fine soft carpet, and I face the thickest blood yet. It’s still sickly, shining red, but with darker clots in it. I don’t understand. And then I see Marissa, see my wife, crumpled in the middle of the room, in the middle of all that blood, face wrenched and distorted by tears, thin frame wracked and shaking. Her thighs are knotted with blood, and it’s so thick it’s almost black. She lets out another wail, arms wrapped tight around a blood-smeared pastel blanket, and I understand. Blood and thicker things run down her legs, stain the brand-new carpet. Blood and thicker things—blood and what might have been. Blood and life, lost.

Everything has ended now.

I go to her, kneeling in the blood, in the life, and the knees of my suit soak with the wretchedness, with the cruelty, and I let her collapse into me.

“Oh, Jade,” Marissa moans, voice hoarse from the crying, from the screaming, from the pain and the grief of life leaving her. I didn’t think I ever would again, but my eyes sting with moisture, with suffering. I think I might be crying. “Jade, I wanted it. I had the baby and I hated it, and I prayed—I _prayed_ , Jade—for this to happen! For th- for _this_ —” Her voice breaks and my cheeks are wet, wet as my knees. Everything is falling apart. Everything is over. There is no way we can come back from this—no way anyone could come back from this. No way anyone would want to.

I think of Gibson. I think irrationally. I think that somehow death is in my genes, that this must be my fault, before I remember the knots of blood matted to my wife’s thighs never had my genes. It wasn’t me, isn’t me, couldn’t have been me.

I’m not relieved.

Pale cords of viscera and muddy ropes of blood coil down her legs and bind us. Marissa lets go of the blanket with one hand and grips my lapel, crushing it in her fragile fist. “But I changed my mind,” she hisses urgently, because I have to know, because she needs me to know, because it is so, so important. “I was excited, excited like you said—I was going to do everything right this time, I was going to be a mother, and I was so happy—”

And then she cannot speak, because her sobs have come again, and I try. I try to go numb, try to shield myself from the awful barb of her loss, and I can’t. I’m too close. It’s part of me, just as much as it was part of her. I wanted to do better, too. I wanted everything to be different.

And now it is.

I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on breathing. I hold Marissa against my bursting chest, and I smooth my hands through her hair, and I breathe. All I can do is breathe.

 

 

Thin grey light curls around the curtain and crawls across the floor. I watch its passage like the hands on an invisible clock. I feel the seconds leaving my body. I doze: the light jumps suddenly and I know I’ve slept. Who can say how long? Only the light, casting itself at our feet, bathing the garish bloodshed in bleak winter light. Marissa sleeps too; the blood hardens into stains, into crust, irrevocable. Timeless hours waste. One, two, five hours since I was meant to be at the office. Daylight begins its retreat. The window cranes its neck. We are silent, frozen, dead. The ache in my knees it unreal and far away. The air reeks of metal, of slaughter. We breathe it deep into our lungs and drown.

Night falls, falls into this bottomless eternity, and I don’t have the will to help it up. I think numbly that time has forgotten us, that the breath on my lips will die there, that Marissa and I will leave this world as peacefully as the life once inside her did violently. We are nature’s balancing act. All things are equal in our end.

But then we hear it. A slamming door, feet once small. And then we remember, or maybe learn for the first time: we are not people, not free, cannot sit down and stop living and let grief take us. Instead we are parents, and the viscera and blood caked down my wife’s thighs and thick in the carpet is not the only life that matters to us. There is another life at stake.

Emmanuel’s voice comes up the stairs. “Mom?” he calls. It could be my voice. When did his start changing? How did I miss it? “Dad?”

I live again. I have to. I get to my feet and my joints scream with protest, with age. I’m stiff. My left knee clicks. No matter how many miles I’ve chased myself on the treadmill, no matter how many games of tennis I’ve played, age has found me. It happens to all of us in the end. I cross the room and pull the door shut behind me just as Em reaches it.

“Dad?” he repeats, his voice faltering this time. “Dad, there’s blood on your hands.”

I look down at the stranger’s hands attached to my wrists and my son is right. Muddy brown flakes crack across the skin as I flex someone else’s fingers. Emmanuel’s eyes are wider than any I’ve ever seen. He’s tall, taller than I remember. “You’ve been growing,” I say, because saying this makes sense to me, makes sense when nothing else does. “You must be the tallest kid in your class.” The thought occurs to me that he should have a basketball hoop. I’ll have to get one for my new place, wherever that ends up being. That’s a good present, isn’t it? Probably better than the porn channels, in retrospect. Probably more appropriate. Already I’m getting better at this. Already I’m changing: the dead man living, the one who could never change, and I’m changing. I feel like I should throw a party, but what kind of celebration is a social punishment as vile as that? Maybe I could just send out announcements.

While my mind wanders, fleeing from the subject at hand because it’s too big and broken to deal with, because for every tiny synapse that changes another one says to hell with it and goes mad, Em’s still staring at me with those flying-saucer eyes, big and dark as ink stains. “Dad, did you kill Mom?” he whispers, voice strangled, cracking. This is a real concern of his. I’m thinking about basketball hoops and he’s wondering if his mother’s dead. If I killed her. To him, it’s a very real possibility. It’s the first explanation for the blood that comes to mind, in fact. That says something about me, doesn’t it? About us?

Another thing about that is, it’s funny. It’s the funniest fucking thing I’ve heard in a very long time. So I do what I can.

I laugh.  
 

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	31. Emmanuel

He killed her. Just when I’m starting to think he might be an okay guy, he kills her. Not that I ever really liked her. Not that I’m too choked up about it or anything. But still. Doesn’t this like scar me for life or something? Aren’t you just sort of doomed to be permanently fucked up once your own goddamn father _murders_ your mom? Cold blood, warm blood, all I see is Mom’s blood. Yeah, I’m definitely going to be screwed up in the head after this one. Like the gay thing wasn’t enough.

It’s a bad thing to think about the newly dead, especially when it was such a bloody, violent death, but she wasn’t much of a mother anyway. I hope they don’t want me to speak at the funeral. That line might not go over too well, but what the hell else is there to say? May she rest in peace? May there be lots of underwear models to bang her in heaven? May Satan at least be well-endowed? I don’t know. I just don’t—my mother’s just been murdered, okay? I just don’t know.

Another thing I’m going to hell for is the way I sort of can’t stop myself from thinking that no one would come anyway. To the funeral, I mean. So if I fucked up the eulogy, well, no one would really care. I mean, since they didn’t even hear it to begin with.

The priest might be pissed.

Dad is still standing there laughing like some kind of maniac. He laughs so hard there are tears in his eyes. He laughs so hard he double over, arms folded over his stomach, and sort of stops breathing a little bit.

That’s when I know for sure he’s lost it. I have never seen him laugh before, and this isn’t even a funny situation. It’s probably the un-funniest situation I’ve ever been in. So obviously he’s freaking madman.

So then I start asking myself the really pertinent questions. I mean, when you’re dealing with a lunatic who thinks murder is this funny, there are just some things you need to ask yourself. Things like: am I next?

I study him covertly, trying to spot the murder weapon. I’m sure it’s on him somewhere. I would really like to not be killed right now. I mean, my life is nothing special. But it’s like I’m finally getting things a little under control. I had like this massive growth spurt so I’m not this shrimpy freshman anymore, my voice doesn’t crack nearly as much as it did at the beginning of the year, my palms don’t really sweat as much as they used to, a girl kissed me of her own volition (motives withheld), and I’m practically a world-renowned drug dealer, at least in my high school. Plus I just got an iPod. Wouldn’t it just be a stupid time to die? I mean, terrible timing on the crazy-spree, Dad. Couldn’t you have put me out of my misery at its peak, not the second it starts backing off?

I decide maybe I should try to reason with him. I mean, I only got my learner’s permit a few days ago. Shouldn’t I get to drive a car before my dad kills me with a sword, or whatever it is he used to get so much blood out of Mom? (I’m thinking a juicer, maybe.) Anyway, they tell you that if you’re ever about to murdered by a nutter, you’re supposed to humanize yourself to them before they can finish the job. Like tell them about your kids and your heart pills and your little fat dachshund or something. Except this is my dad, and I don’t have any of those things, so that technique might be lost on him. I mean, he already killed his wife of a million years. He’s not about to let a few moments of my lame personal history stop him. Anyway, what would I say? Hey, Dad, a girl with huge breasts kissed me not long ago? Because he doesn’t even like breasts. So why would he care about that?

Dad starts to calm down a little, wiping at the tears on his face—which brings up another question: since when does Dad have tear ducts?—with bloody hands. “Oh, Em,” he kinds of gasps. “You’re too much.”

I panic. I don’t know a lot about raving psychopaths, but don’t you think that to a total fruitcake loony like my dad that would seem like a pretty good reason to kill someone? I just don’t want to take that chance. If I am too much, it’s pretty logical that he’ll have to kill me, right? I mean, I’ve never hit anyone before, but I remember what he said, before he went nuts. He said that I was a Puget. He said that no one gets to a hurt a Puget without getting hurt back. He said a Puget doesn’t go without a fight. And that’s got to apply universally, right? I figure it must. So I make a fist and I swing it right at his face.

We are both surprised. My fist hits him right in the jaw and he steps back, just a little, looking stunned, like he’s a shark I just hit on the nose or something. My hands hurts immediately. I know I should run but I just kind of freeze up. Anyway, he doesn’t lunge at me right away or anything, he just kind of touches his lip where it split. It’s already getting puffy. Now there’s even _more_ blood on his hands, which is great. Just fucking great. Way to go, Emmanuel. Well fucking done.

Dad looks at the fresh blood on his fingers and tongues his lip, kind of uncertainly. Luckily the taste of blood doesn’t send him into a feral rage or anything. I mean, as cool as if would be if my dad was actually Wolverine, I don’t want to die anywhere near as much as I used to. “You just hit me in the face,” he says. I thought that was kind of obvious, but what do I know? Anyway, when you’re dealing with a bona fide crazy, a thing like reason becomes something of a moot point.

“I’m sure I deserved it,” he says, still staring at the fresh blood in a majorly creepy way. Suddenly his eyes refocus on me. Surely this is the calm before the killing frenzy. I brace myself.

And then Dad shrugs, dissolving the moment. I find with surprise that my lungs DO work. I can breathe again. “Meet me in the kitchen in half an hour, okay? We need to talk.”

That makes me a little nervous, meeting in the kitchen. Half an hour gives him enough time to either hide Mom’s body, or cut it into pieces small enough to fit in the oven. I sincerely hope it’s the former. I mean, as totally snazzy as father-son prison jumpsuits would be, I don’t want to be an accomplice.

 

 

At first, when I walk into the dining room, I freak out a little bit. Turns out Dad’s crazier than I thought. I say this because Mom’s body is in one of her silky sexy underwear nightgown dress things and wrapped in a thin silk robe. These silk things are part of the reason I almost never let Scott come over. I mean, you can see her nipples right through them, and it’s gross. I guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore. I mean, unless Dad starts wearing them. Anyway, Mom’s carcass is covered, and I mean _covered_ , in blood. Dad has her propped up on one of the tall chairs at the counter and he’s actually talking to her. I mean, I don’t want to sound insensitive, but she’s so much as roadkill. She’s hamburger meat. Beef stroganoff, for god’s sake. But my dad, the psycho, is talking to her. To it. The corpse.

I think I’ve been taking all this pretty well so far. I mean, I’ve been a real fucking adult about the whole thing. But come _on_. There’s only so much I can take before I go all fanatical and stab-happy like Dad. I don’t want to be the next Norman Bates. I really don’t. So I mean, something’s really got to give. Weird shit, for example, could just stop happening for a little bit. So I’d have time to adjust and, you know, cope. Whatever that means.

When I walk into the room, Mom’s cadaver turns its head and looks at me. I just about drop dead. Okay, too soon for that phrase. I just about faint. That’s better. Then she blinks and gives me that look, the one like she’s never seen me before, the one that means she’s taken as many pills as she can swallow, _again_. That’s when I realized that maybe she’s actually alive. Not even the dead could look as numb as she does. When I realize that, when I realize Dad _didn’t_ kill her, I’m almost totally relieved. Only a very small part of me is… well, disappointed is sort of a strong word, isn’t it? But not so far off.

Listen: I don’t really wish my mother was dead. But I just spent an entire half hour getting used to the idea of her being caput. I even thought about whether or not we should bury her in one of these flimsy silk nightgowns she likes so much, or something respectable, and where in hell we’d find something respectable for my mother to wear since it certainly wouldn’t be in her closet. I didn’t have time to decide if, when I had to testify in Dad’s murder trial, I would lie for him yet, but I was pretty much set on playing the tragic hero. I mean, I’d be in the newspapers and everything. And it’s not that I want the attention, even though the attention would be kind of nice. You know, to exist for once. It’s more that I’m just this kid, you know? And I’m fucked up. I mean, everyone knows it. Just by looking at me you can tell. I’m like this huge fucking disaster, a walking talking failure, a _mess_. And I don’t even have a reason to be. I mean, not even one single reason. And that, well, that’s just screwed up. Isn’t it? I mean, isn’t that screwed up?

So when Mom starts talking and her throat isn’t slashed to teeny flapping shreds, well, that sort of ruins everything. And I mean that in the best possible way.

“Emmanuel,” she says, like it’s a new word, like she’s never tasted it before.

“Marissa,” I say back, tongue leaden with sarcasm. I hate her a little bit—okay, a lot—for not being dead. I want to make her cry. I want to hurt her. I don’t know what I want. I want—I want—I just once want to matter enough to her to cause her pain.

But her face doesn’t change. It’s been months since her last Botox. There is no chemical excuse for her numbness. For her _nothing_. So I say, “I hate you,” and I mean it. She doesn’t even blink.

Dad puts a hand on her shoulder and gives me his worst look. I act like I don’t care, but really my insides tie themselves in knots, and more than anything I want to scream. I want to scream because this is just too fucking much, and yes, I _do_ mean that like a gibbering madman might. “Emmanuel, sit down. Don’t be difficult.”

That is my cue to be as difficult as possible. I’m pretty much trashed right now. Emotionally, I mean. Not like I’m drunk. I’m about ready to be drunk, though. Whatever that’s like. I mean, look at how I grew up. That’s the only way I knew how to cope. I just don’t have what it takes to be a normal human being right now, not that I ever had much of a chance at that anyway. Everything in the world is just too much. So I’m going to be fucking difficult. I’m going to be as difficult as I know how to be. Defying my dad is pretty much the biggest rush in the world, except maybe for heroin, which I haven’t tried, but it’s also the most terrifying thing, ever. Definitely _scarier_ than heroin. Definitely more dangerous. Every time my guts freeze like the ice cubes in his scotch and I know I’ll never breathe again. But I do it anyway—I have to. Especially right now. Especially this time. I mean, how else do you know you’re alive, if not by dying? At least a little bit, I mean. So I stop breathing and turn to ice and stand perfectly straight and still. It’s not much, but it’s something. It’s a lot, for me, right now. If Dad wants me to sit, I’ll just keep standing. I’m not his dog, anyway. I don’t have to sit just because he tells me to.

It’s just that I feel like I’ve got to be something, you know? And at school I can be this kid who like sells drugs and stuff. But at home the most I can do is be this huge pain in the ass, because street cred means nothing to these people. I can’t make things easier for him, even if I kind of like him a little bit, because then I’m just another piece of furniture. If I want him to even see me, I have to be this way. You can’t see the mud on the dash of your car without seeing the feet that put it there, right?

“Fine. Stand.” His voice is gritty at the edge, so that I know I’ve made him mad. But he doesn’t even give me the usual withering look. Right away, all his attention goes straight back to the woman it turns out he didn’t kill. Typical. “Iss, do you want to tell him?”

I’d hoped me standing would be a bigger deal. I mean, I’m kind of tired. I actually wish I was sitting down right about now. That would be great. But I can’t like quietly slip into a seat without him noticing. They’re pretty tall chairs.

I am such an idiot sometimes.

Mom gives Dad that vacant look, so he takes her hand and tries on a smile. It fits like if I tried on my gym shoes from second grade. “Okay, I’ll tell him,” Dad says, mostly talking to himself. “Em, your mother and I…” He stops and shakes his head. “Oh, fuck it,” he mutters to himself. “Emmanuel, our marriage is over. We can’t make this work and I just can’t try anymore. Right now, I think it’s important that I—that I find out what it means for me to be happy, that I try to get there. And I can’t do that while I’m married to your mother. I just can’t do that, the way we’re living now. Neither of us is happy with this arrangement anymore, so we’ve agreed to… terminate it. I hope you’re old enough to understand.”

Old enough to understand? I’m fucking offended is what I am. He makes it sound like he’s, I don’t know, firing Mom as his wife. _Terminating_ us as his family. “I’m not an idiot, Dad,” I say, not believing the hot, angry words pouring out of me. I feel sick, I’m so angry. It burns up upside of me and spills out like red-hot vomit. It’s like this black hole in me, devouring everything rational and good, every part of me that might stop me from saying the stuff I know I’ll regret. “I know what you’re doing. You’re giving up and running away, just like always. The only thing between your legs is your _tail_. so why don’t you just run the hell away? Why not just leave me and Mom and the baby all behind? Go hide in your office. Go kill yourself with work and pawn me off on your fucking assistant all over again, see if I fucking care! I’ll take care of Mom, and I’ll take care of myself. Bastard! I don’t fucking need you! This ugly little family you made, we don’t fucking _need_ you!”

It’s like all the anger of one hundred years is leaving me at once, streaming out of my mouth in words that make no sense, in words I’d never say, scalding my tongue and burning the skin into long, curling strips at the corners of my lips, where teeth give way to blisters and blackened skin. I remember earlier, when I hit him. Maybe I should do it again. I feel like I should do _something_. But instead I just stand there and fling the only words I can think of at him, like they’re weapons, like they’ll hurt. “And will someone tell me why the _fuck_ Mom is covered in blood?”

Mom looks down at herself dazedly like maybe she didn’t know she’s a bloody fucking disaster. “Oh dear,” she says in this small voice, and even though she’s sitting so close I could touch her I know she’s miles away. She sounds young and scared, like she’s some kind of doll, like instead of my mother all along she’s just been this pale porcelain doll and I didn’t even know it. And even though I’m tired as hell of looking at her, of thinking of her, of existing at the same time as she does, I almost feel bad for her, for the way her voice sounds, for never knowing that she was really just this sad little doll and maybe everything all along has just been too much. My mom, the ice queen that had almost nothing to do with raising me, she would never say ‘oh dear’. For the first time it occurs to me she might have been someone, once, before me. Before my dad, even. Maybe Mom wasn’t always Drunk & Horny Porn Star Barbie. Maybe she was a person, before all this.

That’s just me being stupid, though.

Dad’s amber eyes are honing in on my soul. I swear he has laser eyes. Like Cyclops but more subtle. My skin is practically melting off. I can almost read his mind, he’s looking at me so hard. He’s thinking: Emmanuel, you little bitch, I’m going to poison your next meal to be rid of you for good. I’m going to lock you in a missile silo. You should have fucking sat. Say one more word and I’ll eat your tongue for tomorrow’s breakfast. Don’t you know we only had you in case I needed an organ donor someday? You aren’t my son, you’re livestock.

Instead of confessing he’s an organ harvester, though, he says something a little more surprising. And not the good kind of surprise, either. I never thought you could lose something you never had, but I guess that shows how much I know.

“Your mother miscarried. We lost the baby.”

Several earths collide. Mom’s face breaks open like a clouded sky. She stares at the blood flaking off her in sudden horror. I taste bile. It’s not blood after all. It’s _baby_. That’s what Mom’s coated with— _baby_. It’s not blood, it’s death.

What’s wrong with me? Why do I have to think things like that? I mean, it almost, almost sounds sort of cool, but really, Mom leans forward and pukes the way I want to, vomits all over the floor, and that’s what real life is like. The puke has a long way to fall and when it finally hits the floor is splatters. Mostly on her, but still. Some gets on me. I’ve been yakked on, and that’s an easier crisis to handle. I mean, puke is nothing next to dead babies, and maybe that’s what I need right now.

You would think I wouldn’t care about such a stupid thing, a little bit of puke-splatter, at a time like this, wouldn’t you? Well, you’re wrong. Suddenly it’s like being regurged on is even worse than Mom covered in blood, even worse than the baby dying even before it lived, even worse than the divorce. Suddenly being puked on is the whole world, and I’m okay with that. Being petty makes life easier to deal with, no one can argue with that. I’ll break it down into small bites, and that way I can swallow.

“I’m glad!” I say, so loud, much too loud, to no one in particular, to the still dead air, which was also puked on. We’re kindred spirits, that air and I, so I fill it up with venom, with vileness, with stench and sting. “I’m fucking glad you won’t have another kid to ignore and manipulate and ruin!”

And before those bastards can say a word, I turn around, and I _run_. I run like hell itself, or maybe Kenton, is behind me. I’m not ashamed of that.

 

 

At first I just keep running. But I get tired pretty fast. I mean, track is one thing. Cross country is another. I don’t have the training to do long-distance sprinting. I mean, I can dash one hundred meters like a goddamn bunny, but over varying terrain and a big huge fat couple of miles, it’s like my lungs are being scraped out of me with a coat hanger. I slow down to a jog. Pretty soon it’s a miracle I’m not crawling. It is pitch black outside before I get to Scott’s. I’m so tired I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated what the word meant before, and I almost get hit by about nine different cars, and I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself, all things considered. Also, I can’t walk any farther. I’m hungry and miserable and tired and cold and a little out of shape. I haven’t been training too much lately. I mean, it’s loads cooler to ditch track practice and hang out at the mall with my cool drug-dealing buddies, right? Right. The moral of the story is that I absolutely cannot make it to Scott’s house, not without taking a break and maybe dying first, so I sit down at the curb for a little while and pant like a dog, angry and drained and possibly having a stroke, jealous of the lights in the windows around me, jealous of the people in the houses who are whole, who like one another, who are all alive and still married and have probably never even thought about killing each other with swords. I sit on the curb and breathe so hard it’s embarrassing, and feel cold. I’m alone; very, very alone. I mean, I’ve always been alone. But I’ve never really felt it before. Not like this.

It’s in this perfect fucking moment some asshole decides to walk by with his dog, which by the way waddles, and mutters, “Fucking gutter punk scum,” and I fall apart. I mean, it’s entirely unprovoked. Except for selling drugs I am the perfect citizen. I am so upstanding I could be mistaken for a Samaritan. I have practically been optioned for Neighborhood Watch. I mean, for all this asshole knows, I volunteer at a soup kitchen. Maybe I use all my drug money to feed the poor! I mean, I don’t, but I could. He doesn’t know.

I’m on my feet before I know what’s happening. The rage is back, hot as ever, but this time it’s thick, like maybe my esophagus is actually knotted up and I’m choking on it inside-out, and my cheeks are wet and I don’t know why, and I’m yelling. My voice is too big, over-inflated like it’s about to burst, strangled. Choked.

“You don’t know anything about me!” I yell at the man, who probably had no idea what he was getting himself into, obviously didn’t know I had the crazy gene. I yell it at the man and I yell it at his stupid snuffling bulldog. I yell it at the dark and the empty and myself. And what I think is, I wish Dad really had killed Mom, and I wish he’d killed me next.

I wish, I want, I waste. Because I’m pathetic, I cry.  
The man stands there looking at me like I have some kind of crippling deformity, which I do, except that you can’t actually see it just by looking at me. It’s dark, and his face is shadowed, and another thing I wish is that I’d just let it go, the way Pugets aren’t supposed to, according to my dad, who has obviously flown over the cuckoo’s nest and is not coming back. This standing-staring-muttering bulldog guy, he’s starting to creep me out.

I yell again. I try to sound big, because I’m small. I try to sound brave, because I’m scared. “What the fuck are you looking at? Who the hell do you even think you are?”

“Is that—are you— _Emmanuel_?” the guy asks. His fat dog sits down at his feet, and that’s when I start to get really scared. I mean, the creep who snuck up on me in the middle of the night knows my name. Coincidence? I think not.

“Don’t see how it’s your business,” I bluff, trying to feel half as tough as I’m trying to sound.

The guy laughs, sort of. Only it’s cold and sharp and kind of how I always thought Dad would laugh, if he knew how, before I found out that when he does actually laugh it’s like a crazy freaking loon. “You are just like your father, you know that? God. You even have his voice.”

He knows Dad? Uh-oh. I suddenly realize that I was right all along. My dad _is_ a secret agent. Jean really _is_ my bodyguard. And now, because I’m an idiot, his nemesis has got me. This is just fabulous. I look at the dog, wondering. Is it a cybertronic bomb? Or just the run-of-the-mill bloodthirsty attack dog that’s going to tear out my jugular as soon as this guy, the villain, gives the command? Neither seems likely, looking at the dog, which is pretty fat and slobbery and lazy, but I guess you never know. Or at least, I never know. Maybe other people sometimes know. Maybe it’s just me that never does. Wow, that would suck.

I stand there and wait for him to kill me, or kidnap me, or whatever he plans on doing. But he just keeps talking. It’s like he wants the anticipation to do the job for him. I am about five minutes from cardiac arrest, though, so he won’t have to monologue for much longer. Apparently there’s just a lot of anxiety involved when you realize for the second time in only a few short hours that an attempt on your life is imminent, and you can very probably do nothing about it, especially if after you hit the guy you’re just going to stand there like an idiot.

“You really don’t know what I am?” the arch-villain is saying. He drops down to one knee, and suddenly his face is illuminated, and he looks a little familiar. I try to remember where I’ve seen him before. I’m working on that one, but he beats me to it. “I’m your uncle. Um, you know, Smith.”

I remember him then. I’ve seen him at some Christmas or another, a billion years ago. He looks like my dad, only his hair is shorter, and his teeth are crooked because he’s not the kind of weirdo who gets adult braces. The jeans he’s wearing are a little ragged, same as his pullover sweater, which is fraying a little bit. His sneakers are scuffed to hell. He doesn’t look like someone who’d be related to me. To my dad. He doesn’t look like a Puget is supposed to, or even like someone a Puget should associate with. I mean, I don’t care about that stuff like my dad does, but it’s just hard to imagine them as brothers, growing up in the same house, eating the same breakfasts, taking the same busses to school. Although, his eyes seem to be a little wild. Maybe he’s crazy cakes, too.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks me. He looks just as angry as my dad. Just as haunted. Just as harrowed.

I give him a baleful look, blink slowly. “You’re the one who doesn’t even live around here,” I spit. I’ve decided not to like him. No matter how real he looks, he’s a Puget, just like my dad. Puget is practically a synonym for huge gigantic bastard.

“Dad’s—wow, I guess he’d be your grandfather, huh? He’s sick, Emmanuel. I’m here to help your grandma take care of him and the house and all that stuff. I’m here because you’re supposed to spend Christmas with the people you love, and that’s coming up in a few days. And I’m here because Josephine here won’t walk herself, and Dad just isn’t up to it these days. I know he’d like to see you. Will you come with me? It’s not very far from here.”

“I have somewhere to be,” I lie through my teeth. The last thing I want to do is spend some time with another ticking Puget bomb. Sounds like a hell of a time. And this stuff about a sick grandfather—sounds like the damn Hallmark channel. I mean, we get that at home. If I wanted to watch Tuesdays with Morrie, well, I would.

“You don’t have to stay,” my uncle says, and kind of smiles at me. I realize that he’ s actually kind of cool. Not only because of what he said, but also because the last time Dad mentioned him he called him an ‘unmotivated bleeding heart that dwells on things long past’. You’ve probably heard the Arab proverb, everyone has, but there’s a reason for that. It’s worth remembering. “It’d be cool if you’d say hi to everyone, though,” the enemy of my enemy adds.

He’s practically a stranger, even if we do have a lot of the same DNA, and I’ve been told since kindergarten never to go anywhere with a stranger. I also know that Dad will absolutely shit himself if he found out I went anywhere with his supposedly deadbeat brother.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”  
 

  
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This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	32. Smith

It’s a hell of a thing, taking Josephine for a walk and coming home with not only a bag of dog shit but its son, too.

I wince, thinking that. Kids aren’t my thing, and this one reminds me of Jade so much it makes my ears ring. Once you start monitoring your thoughts for niceness, what’s the point of thinking? You’ve become a machine. So I let the thought stand. I only try to justify it a little bit. I don’t try to talk to him on the walk back to Dad’s place, to the house I grew up in. What the hell do you say to the wayward son of a stranger? Not knowing my own nephew is a great reason to hate my cunt of a brother, but I didn’t sign up for a meet and greet. I’m bringing him home because Dad’s getting weaker by the day, and because if Ellie thinks I’ve done something sweet (like reaching out to a misguided youth) I will definitely get some tonight, in the bed Jade and I shared when we were kids. People have done things for less, I assure you.

The kid scuffs his feet on the sidewalk until I’m ready to blow out his kneecaps. Like father, like son. It’s the kind of song that makes my cuticles tingle. It’s worth it, when we walk up the crumbling front steps and walk into the foyer, when I get to call out, “Mom, look what I found” and see her worn face light up at the sight of him.

I let Josephine off her leash while my mother and my wife descend on my nephew, screeching like banshees about how big he is, how much like Jade he looks. Like that’s supposed to be a good thing. _I’m_ the handsome one. Everyone says so.

At that thought I smile, but only a little. I’m smiling at the ghost of who I used to be, struggling to measure up to my big brother. He was like a god to me. Whatever Jade did, I wanted to do. What he liked, I liked. I spent my childhood trying to be either Jade’s best friend, or Jade himself—the distinction was never clear to me. Then we hit high school and all at once it became a competition. While Jade aced his Calculus final, I scored the winning point in the lacrosse regionals. While Jade got accepted into every school he applied to, I was the most popular guy in the sophomore class. And after I caught Jade fooling around in our basement with his friend Tim—one of his only friends, I might add—the race exploded. The Cold War had nothing on us. It wasn’t an arms race, wasn’t a space race. It was more important than all that. We each worked on our Doomsday machine. I went to wild parties and smooth-talked my way into Stephanie Brunsey’s bed (although, let’s be honest, Jagermeister did most of the work for me). That was part of the race, too. He put his hand down Tim Armstrong’s jeans and I got Stephanie’s off entirely. I had to be better, stronger and faster and smarter, strong in any area he was weak. It wasn’t a balancing act for our parents’ affection; it was much more than that.

It wasn’t until much later I realized that Jade didn’t see it that way. That if it was a game, he didn’t even know I was playing. While I pushed myself to grow up too fast and outshine big brother, he wasn’t competing at all. Or at least, not with me—he was competing with everyone, with everything we stood for, with our social class and my father’s salary and what he saw when he looked in the mirror, with his own faults and inadequacies, with his own downfalls and weaknesses, with his own limits. Hell, for all that Jade was competing against, everything he pushed against in that indiscriminate race, the one that would crush and sacrifice anything in his path, he never even knew I was there.

I snort at the hard memory of it all. Pathetic—I was pathetic. I scratch behind Josephine’s ears and she sighs happily. Mom looks up, eyes shining with tears, and I realize with seconds left till impact I’m being targeting for a nuclear hug. She flings herself at me, small and soft and fragile as a sparrow, and loses herself in me, tears soaking through my shirt just below my chest. Both Jade and I, we got our height from Dad. Mom barely breaks 5’3”.

“Oh, Smith,” she sniffles. “It’s perfect, he’s perfect. Thank you so much.”

Even if I’m not that sad little boy anymore, I can’t help thinking it. At least _one_ of her sons turned out all right. (That’s me, in case you weren’t listening.)

Mom shepherds us all into the living room. Dad’s set up with his all his tubes and wires and clicking oxygen tank on the couch. Usually rooms with sick people in them are dimly lit and musty, so still and macabre you keep looking over your shoulder, waiting to feel the dry-paper skin of death brush up against you. It’s not like that here. With Ellie and I here to help out, Mom’s been able to keep the room fresh and nice. There’re even flowers in a vase on an end table. It’s been weeks since Dad left this room, but the lights are still bright and cozy and the air is still fresh. We’ve even set up a Christmas tree in the corner, ornaments and lights and everything. It’s just like when we were kids. The carpet is worn thin and the furniture is patchy, but Mom’s smile lights up the room. Ellie kisses my cheek, leaning into me.

“You did a good thing, Smith,” she whispers to me. Her breath is warm on my cheek. I put an arm around her shoulder and enjoy the show.

Mom puts a hand on each of my nephew’s shoulders and parades him around the front of the couch for my father to see. “Connor, your grandson has stopped by for a visit,” she tells him, which is almost entirely false, and beams. And just like that, Dad’s face lights up. He opens and his arms, sits up straighter than he’s been able to in days, and hugs Emmanuel like he’s the prodigal son returned. He doesn’t look _that_ much like Jade, damnit. Even with Ellie right there next to me, I can feel the heat of anger start itching under my skin. I want to claw it off my arms, set the anger free, bleed it out of my skin and my self and my spirit. Alternately, I want to throttle Jade. I want to paint my face with his heartblood and scream mayhem.

Good son that I am, I do none of these things. Instead I grit my teeth and watch the father whose affection was always devoted to Jade, whose approval I always starved for, fawn over Emmanuel like he’s the only son he’s ever wanted. And just when I think I can’t take it anymore, when I’m so tense Ellie squeezes me tight arm in warning, it gets that much worse.

Dad, snarled in those choking vines of breathing and feeding and morphine apparatuses, he looks past Emmanuel to me. Me, the one who’s been here, playing cards with him, staying up late watching Cheers reruns till he falls asleep and getting to work bleary-eyed and exhausted, looking through faded photographs and penning his goodbyes when his hands shake too hard to hold a pen. Me, the son who visited once a week even when he was healthy, who choked down Mom’s meatloaf every Thursday night for a lifetime and wrote her checks as often as I could spare them, who’s fighting off the same medical bills he wouldn’t admit to struggling with until they went into collection. Me—me, who’s always been here, who never had a chance to leave; even when, especially when, Jade went away. When he left them all alone except for the tuition bills. Fifty thousand a year doesn’t leave much left over, and fuck all his scholarships. Maybe I didn’t get in to any of the Ivy Leagues, but I could have done better than commuting to the closest community dump. Hell, you could say that about most anything in my life, excepting of course Elodia. I swear to god, that’s what it’ll say on my tombstone. Smith Puget: he could have done better.

And no, who went to college where is not the point. The point is, he left years ago and I still haven’t. The point is that I’m still here. I’m still here and Dad—good old Dad, he looks up at me with misty eyes, fresh from hugging Emmanuel, and his voice is more hopeful than it’s been since Jade left. He looks at me and asks, “Is Jade here? Where’s my son?”

Here are some things I could answer that with:

“Gee, Dad, I’m standing right here,”  
“Dead, with any luck,”  
“You only have one of those left, Pops,” or, my personal favorite,  
“Jade doesn’t give a shit about you or me or anyone else, Dad. He never has and he never will. When are you going to stop loving him so damn much?”

Emmanuel saves me the trouble of choosing which form of scintillating heartbreak I should deliver to my dying father, who hasn’t hugged me in years. “He’s at home. Him and Mom are getting divorced because of her miscarriage.”

There’s silence and we all look horrified, even Emmanuel. I don’t think he meant to say it. God. How could you ever mean to say something like that? They just aren’t words you ever prepare yourself for. You don’t wake up one morning and decide to practice saying them, not the way you imagine your first kiss or what you’re going to say to Eric Kaskas before you punch him in the jaw or proposing marriage. Not the way you stand in the shower and pretend the shampoo bottle is a microphone and give a tear-jerking acceptance speech for the Oscar, or the Grammy, or the Nobel prize—pick your flavor. There is no dress rehearsal for saying things like that. You don’t have the luxury of preparing a speech.

“After the blood type complications the last time—” Mom finally stammers. Dad interrupts in that loud, irreverent old man way of his, “He can’t get divorced!” And in the same moment, Ellie speaks, sounding appalled. “She’s pregnant _again_?”

Emmanuel is momentarily paralyzed. Poor kid’s system overloaded. For a second I try to put down the loathing and think of him as more than a miniature Jade, as a real person. It doesn’t really work. He really does look just like him, all except for his eyes. I focus on his eyes and watch him flounder, trying to move beyond the immediate emotional barrage and pick a statement to address.

Finally he says awkwardly, “She didn’t mean to be pregnant. It wasn’t even—it wasn’t even Dad’s. But she’s not anymore, I guess. There was blood everywhere. I don’t know.” And then he does something inconceivable. He meets my eyes with his own wide grey ones, a desperate look in them. It’s clear to me what the look means—he’s asking for help. Asking _me_ for help. As if we’re friends, allies.

Maybe he’s not wrong to think that. After all, I’m the one who brought him here. He’s known me for five minutes longer than the others, and while I’m standing coolly at the edge of the room, they’re crowding him, stampeding, bombarding him with feelings and affection and questions he’s too young to even begin to cope with. Maybe I’m the cool, distant center he needs to ease his way out of the turmoil.

Jade never once asked me for help. Maybe that’s the reason I do it. Maybe that’s the reason I intervene. Or maybe I’m just not as cold-hearted as I’d like to think. Not yet, anyway. “He’s only a kid,” I interrupt the gossip frenzy. “He shouldn’t have to be the one telling us this stuff.”

Relief passes over my nephew’s face and he smiles at me. It feels good; for a moment he looks nothing like Jade. That feels good, too. I smile back and mean it.

Mom’s the first to recover from her social blunder. Now that I’ve granted Emmanuel impunity, she’s got to distract us from our group faux pas. She blushes and claps her hands together, changing the subject. “I’ll go get the coffee tray. You’ll stay for a coffee, won’t you, Emmanuel?”

I expect him to look to me for a rescue again. I expect to think less of him for it. Instead he just widens his eyes at me, and I feel more like he’s asking permission. I shrug. He finds his voice and says, “I’d like that.” I didn’t expect a little gutter punk like him to be half as sincere. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up liking the little bastard.

It’s like Ellie reads my mind. She lays her head on my shoulder and murmurs, “You like him, don’t you?”

I scowl and don’t answer. Instead I watch Emmanuel settle on the couch next to Dad. Seinfeld’s on. I get the feeling we’re about to have a very touching family moment. The other feeling I get is nausea. Luckily, Mom intervenes before I’m forced to participate in bonding. She sneaks up behind me, taps my shoulder, and beckons me into the kitchen. We go the long way, through the foyer, instead of through the dining room. This way I can just back out of the room: no one sees me go but Ellie. Mom taps her acrylic nails on the lacquered counter, watching the coffee brew. It’s a hell of a smell. “I think you should call Jade,” she half-whispers. We wouldn’t want the refrigerator to overhear.

“No,” I say automatically. The word comes out of my mouth before I’m even consciously aware of the question. The last thing in hell I’m _ever_ going to do is call Jade.

Mom gives me her hard look, which has only grown more powerful with age. “He shouldn’t be out wandering so far from home past dark! What if it hadn’t been you that found him? And in this neighborhood!”

Under the force of her gaze, I revert back to childish mannerisms. It’s what she expects of me. “I don’t want to,” I whine, playing the part. The subject of Jade really brings out the best in me.

“You think _I_ want to talk to him?” Mom scolds. She’s always happy to play the matron. “There’s a reason I’m making _you_ call. But no matter how we feel about him, he’s a man now, and he deserves to know where his son is. Especially if he’s having as rough a time as Emmanuel says.”

Flash-flood anger crashes through me in a hot wash. This is nothing new. In high school they called it behavior issues. In college, bar fights. I make a fist and slam it into the stained kitchen counter I used to eat my cereal at. “Damn it, Ma, _you’re_ having a rough time, aren’t you? And he hasn’t called because _you_ deserve to know where your son is!”

Mom narrows her eyes sharply. I fill with a sick twist of victory, knowing I’ve touched a nerve, laid a finger upon it and bared my teeth as if to say, I could cut you up, if I wanted to. “Smith Leroy Puget!” Mom hisses, her face going white. “I already _have_ a son, even if you are an idiot. Your father has lived a long, full life. Don’t you _dare_ compare the old man in the next room with a child robbed of life!”

I could blame Mom for being dramatic, which she is, or the subject of Jade for making me act badly, which it has, but I’m the one who made her think about Dad dying _and_ Gibson in one unmediated sentence. It’s almost a skill. Being an asshole is just one of those things that you never outgrow. Both of us Puget boys are testaments to that droll fact. I grit my teeth and say, “I’m sorry, Mom.”

She puts her self-righteous face on. “Damn right you are,” she says, chin held high. “Now call your goddamn brother, would you? Maybe he’ll be grateful, Smith. Maybe he needs someone to talk to. There was a time when no one knew him better, you know.”

“I never knew him,” I say to myself. She’s already picked up the chipped coffee tray and bustled out of the kitchen. Way I see it, I have two options. I can break every promise I’ve ever made myself while simultaneously betraying Emmanuel’s whereabouts to his sociopathic father, who happens to be our common enemy, or I can make Ellie do it for me.

I go with door number three. I linger in the kitchen for a plausible amount of time. I even make sure to go through the foyer to get back to the den, so everyone’s back will be to me, in case there is some smidge of guilt on my face. Mom’s hawk eyes are on me the instant I get into the room; coming in the other doorway didn’t even throw her. The woman is a goddamn bloodhound sometimes.

I don’t particularly relish lying to her, but talk is cheap. There’s isn’t much I won’t say, if it has a need to be said. The truth is subjective anyway. When Mom asks if I’ve called Jade, the lie is already on my lips. “He didn’t pick up,” I say, not skipping a beat. Now, an amateur might try to make a lie more realistic by throwing in a note of bewilderment—for some inexplicable reason my darling brother Jade did not pick up his telephone! It’s about as subtle as the voiceovers in kung fu movies. I’m not an amateur. So I let show only the most genuine details—the true ones: that I’m pissed she made me call, that I can’t stand the brother in question, that avoiding us is typical of him, that I think he should just go die in a hole somewhere, that betraying Emmanuel so soon after rescuing him makes me about as uncomfortable as getting my first erection did. Really, there’s more truthful content in this moment than there is lie. That’s how you can tell I’m an expert.

Mom takes me at my word, not even blinking. I think that to this day my parents really believe I spent every weekend of high school playing video games in Ricky Templeton’s basement, just like I told them. Poor saps.

Emmanuel’s eyes are on me. After all, I’ve just revealed myself to be a traitor. “You called my dad?” he asks me, looking hurt and horrified. I love how much play I have with this kid’s emotions. It’s intoxicating. I wink at him, hoping he understands the dire meaning I’m attempting to communicate with the gesture. It says, you know I, a virtual stranger you inexplicably trust, would never do such a thing. It also says, tell your grandmother and die. I’m not entirely sure if he gets it. It’s kind of a big message for an eyelid spasm. Not that my winks aren’t up to it. My winks are fucking heroes. It’s Emmanuel’s code-breaking skills that are in question. I mean, he doesn’t exactly look like a wind talker. I have to consider the possibility that I may actually have been too subtle. That’s not something I usually have a problem with. It is in fact the antithesis of what I usually have problems with. I’m saving the Hegelian dialect for another day, though. It’s my ace in the hole. I only have enough to use it once, so it’s really got to count.

Unfortunately, the wink is intercepted. For every bit that it escapes Emmanuel, Ellie comprehends more clearly than if I’d just said it out loud. Forget what they tell you in church. Marriage is the only real sin. It makes all the other ones impossible. Tell me that’s not a crime.

“You didn’t call him,” Ellie accuses, crossing her arms over her chest and turning a little harmless deceit into full-out family turmoil. We may even have a debacle if she doesn’t reel it in. “You’re making that up.”

Everyone falls silent. Even Josephine, who has resumed her place at my father’s feet, stares at me balefully. “Sure he did,” Mom says, defending me not without suspicion. “Just now, in the kitchen, like I asked him to.” It takes a pro to pick up on the quality to her voice that is not unlike an ultimatum. Her eyebrows, in a hard line, screech “or else!” at me. If only I were twelve again, I’d be paralyzed in fear. Mom didn’t believe in spanking, so if Dad wasn’t home to discipline us, things like lying, cheating, stealing, and making your brother bleed earned you a seemingly endless series of smacks with the business end of her long wooden stirring spoon. To this day I think wooden cutlery is not only nefarious but unnatural as well.

Ellie, who is every bit as strong-willed and frightening as my mother, gives me a look I’m very familiar with. Because I _am_ a wind talker, I know what this look says. It says, I know you, Smith Puget. I know you wouldn’t call your brother if he were the only other human left on earth. You couldn’t call your brother if you needed an emergency heart transplant and he’d been born with two. You wouldn’t call your brother if you ran him down with your car and left him for dead. The look also says, if you lie to me, your dick will shrivel up and fall off due to your never using it again.

I am not a woman. This means I do not have iron will, unending tolerance of pain, or masturbatory experiences that are even remotely good as real sex. In fact they are hardly comparable.

I do what I always do when it comes to a face-off between Ellie and me and other people are watching. I cave quickly, as to avoid the embarrassment later. “Fine, you win. I didn’t call him,” I grumble. If we’d been alone, I would have fought the good fight. I still would have lost, of course, because my efforts will always be futile against Ellie’s feminine wiles, and I would have been humiliated and probably forced into some sort of laundry-related reparations. “But Emmanuel obviously skipped out for a reason! I didn’t bring him here to turn him over to the enemy. That just doesn’t seem right.”

Ellie raises a sharp black eyebrow at me. “Since when are you a moral crusader?” she asks critically. “If it were _your_ son—”

“It’s not,” I say shortly, cutting her off. “And if he were, I’d want him to decide for himself.” I pull my bulky cell phone out of my pocket and toss it to Emmanuel. He snatches it out of the air and stares at it for a moment.

“I don’t ever want to go home,” he says quietly, throwing in a bitter laugh that sounds like a noise I’d make, before plunging into crazy talk. “But Pugets don’t get shot in the back. We don’t die running… we die on our feet, facing the enemy, staring down the barrel of our last breath. Like Dad said.”

I don’t know where the kid came up with that. Pugets run. We put our tails between our legs and flee. We’ll spend our natural existence running from the same truth, holding the same grudge and denying the same facts. We’d die before facing it. We squeal and fold and beg when it catches us. That’s just who we are. It’s in our blood. Jade’s been lying to his son. Where else would he have gotten this crap?

Emmanuel throws the phone back to me. It makes a perfect silver arc through the air. I catch it a second before it’s too late. “Go ahead,” he says. “Call him.”

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	33. Adam

Matt and I have been waiting for over five hours now. If I wasn’t worried Jade had been prematurely arrested, kidnapped by a two-bit criminal confused about the state of public and financial ruin the company was currently in, or flat-out killed himself, I’d probably be enjoying myself. For one thing, if he ever _does_ show up, I will get to lord over him with condescending smartass comments like he’s done to me every time I’ve been so much as a millisecond late, even the time I forgot to change my watch to Japan time. Because that’s what you do when you love someone. You gloat and rub every shortcoming in their pretty little face.

Of course, Jade doesn’t _have_ a pretty little face. He has sharp cheekbones, a penetrating gaze, and lips that dole out punishment and praise alike without hesitation. I shake my head to clear it. My god, the way I’m acting, you’d think I _wanted_ to have my ass handed to me by Matt. You absolutely do not daydream during Golden Eye. You just don’t. Not if you want to live, that is.

It’s too late. My concentration is shot. I step directly on a mine I never saw Matt lay. James Bond is blown half to hell, and that’s the end of my lives. Matt wins the game.

“I get to play now,” Susan reminds me immediately, snatching my controller. There are only four spots open for our 007 tournament, and they’re very competitive. Even Davey’s ventured into the room, which is brave, considering that merriment burns his soul like acid or holy water do his skin. With Jade out of the office and the feds freezing our accounts, there’s nothing to do but soothe the troubled clientele, and by four o’clock or so even they have stopped calling. There is nothing for we of the eighteenth floor to do but order pizza and play video games. Because I’ve reopened a vein of humanity within myself—and I owe that to Hunter, seems like—I haven’t even chased Dave away with ridiculous demands. We are all of us coexisting and enjoying ourselves. We could call it a Christmas party, but no one is drinking; so we don’t call it anything, since the only other name for it is a ‘we might all be unemployed by tomorrow morning’ party. That’s kind of a downer, not to mention a mouthful.

I lean back into the couch and watch Susan button-mash her way to victory. It’s uncanny. I start to think in that apocalyptic type of way that maybe the end of the world won’t be so bad. That maybe this is all going to be okay after all. Jade with his wife and his son and his exhausted love for Isaac, which I haven’t yet begun to fathom. Me with my ex sleeping on my couch for all eternity because I can’t bear to throw him out, until maybe we fall so deep into the pattern of things that I don’t make him sleep on the couch anymore, that just because it’s familiar and easy and I’m lonely, because he’s lived there for months anyway, maybe he’s not my ex anymore either. Jade with his enigmatic whisper on the plane. Me with my nothing. Maybe if the catharsis really sets in, makes itself at home in me, I won’t care—won’t even notice. And that thought, that thought I can almost bear.

Almost.

The game is turned up loud, the stereo louder; half the suits on floor 18 have joined our unemployment party. The creative space is filled to the brim with the restless, the desperate, the scared; it is the end of the line. We brush shoulders, bump elbows, talk to faces we’ve only ever glimpsed before. And why shouldn’t we? Our world is ending. This is the apocalypse. There is no time left for reservations. No space for regrets. There is talk of a beer run.

The sounds all run together, and I close my eyes to take it in, this blur of living, of activity, a last stand. We are all dead men. We just haven’t hit the ground yet. We’ll wake up with dirt over our eyes, face-to-face with the satin lining of our failure, of our good intentions, and we’ll at long last have reached the place all our efforts lead to. It’s not quite nowhere. It’s half a dozen feet lower than that.

Matt speaks in my ear, shattering the sound with something jarring, unique, of his own. He says my name. He laughs, asks me if I’m napping, jokes that old men like us just can sleep through anything. I just bet he can. He tells me that Colin will be jealous when he hears how we got paid to play video games all day. I think of Hunter tear-streaked and pale, staring into his beer, leaning his head back on my front door, meekly accepting pillows and sheets for the couch, not knowing where I kept them. Somehow I think Colin has other things on his mind just now. Somehow I don’t think Matt’s day at work has ever been very high on his list of priorities—but there’s no way I can tell Matt that. Besides, if the affair really is over, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?

Wrong.

I don’t believe that, I can’t. Because it’s not just Matt. It’s me. It’s me, wishing I’d known. Wishing Jade were beside me—wishing we could pour ourselves a drink and toast the apocalypse, wishing I could spend the end of the world in his arms. Because I know now that that’s what this is. The end of the company, the end of the world, the end of hope. The end of the Jade and me that never were, perhaps never could have been. As one inevitably does at the end of a life, I lament the time I’ve wasted. I steep in my regrets. I say what I shouldn’t say, because there will be no tomorrow. Tonight is the end of all things, I can feel it. Everything has shifted, everything has changed. There will be no dawn for any of us.

I don’t want to hurt Matt—or perhaps I do, I don’t know anymore—but the fact remains that he’s going to be hurt, sooner or later. It is only a matter of time—and time is the one thing we don’t have right now. Time, and liquor. If I thought he’d get back in time to watch the sunset, to watch the end, I’d send Davey to get some. But she’s dying, this life, this world—she’s dying, and she could go at any minute. It’s only fair he get to watch the fireworks with the rest of us. We ought to sit on the beach and watch the sky curl in on itself and implode, ought to stare out across the black ocean and hold hands with strangers and kiss the person we love, one last—one first—time.

“Matt,” I say, too softly. He doesn’t know me all that well, but the very softness of my voice stops him, tells him at once that my words are unbearable, that they herald an apocalypse of his own. Maybe the end will be different for each of us: maybe some of us will simply fall asleep in their beds and never wake up again. Maybe not all of us want to sit in the cool sand and watch. Maybe it is not such a bad thing, to want to close your eyes.

I know he will want to pour tar into his lungs one last time before the end of things, because he can feel it coming now too. I use it to my advantage, because that is who I have become, because that is the thing I do in order to get what I want. I use things—be they numbers or people or facts—to my advantage. I do not discriminate. I will use Matt’s vice the way most people use a hand towel. It is not a particularly satisfying feeling, but tonight, nothing is. The last cigarette is the best, I want to tell Matt, but he already knows, because he’s had hundreds. “Step out for a smoke with me,” I say, bribing him past the fear of ending. On the balcony, we will have a better view of it all, falling to pieces around us.

Matt did not become an attorney because he was unintelligent. Whether I bribe him with tobacco or not, he’s spooked. Something old and knowing within him, waking, secretes fear and unease into his predator’s blood, urges him not to hear what I have to say, hisses that the very earth I tread is laced with danger. There’s an animal in him that remembers the way life was at the beginning, before the birth of man, before the end, and the taste of peril ahead stings its eyes, chokes its nostrils, fills its wet red mouth.

In the end, Matt is only a man. The million-year ghost fades from him, and he is free to breathe and think and act beyond that gripping chill of premonition. “Yeah, okay,” he says, because cigarettes are safe, because how bad of a thing could I have to say to him if he can have a cigarette while it’s happening? I think the worst news is always broken over cigarettes, over drinks, over these casual comforts. How bad can it be, compared to the slow, expensive suicide Matt commits with every breath? How bad can it be, if by the end of things you’re halfway dead already? Nothing can be worse than cigarettes. No news can be more devastating than what he’s doing to himself. We’re on the balcony, soundproof glass door sealed airtight behind us, before Matt gives me a funny look. “Since when do you smoke?” he asks, remembering.

I brace myself on the railing with my forearms and lean, peering over the edge, letting the endgame of the updraft caress my face. Up here, you can’t even smell the exhaust, can’t smell the overwhelming wharves the choked the tiny balcony of my old apartment. I feel my lips curl into a brittle smile. This is tenuous, this is temporary, but it’s freedom. Just being up here breathing this dizzying air, this is my happiness.

“I don’t,” I say, and then glance over my shoulder at Matt to paralyze him with my eyes, pin him down before he can run away, not for urgency of the moment but because of how lovely he’ll look on the corkboard, with the rest of my collection. The choking weight of knowledge seems like nothing, now. Tossed to the wind. It is suddenly much less important that Matt knows what I do—something I tell him for pleasure, almost for the sport of it, instead of taking the ugly role of albatross, of harbinger, out of a misconstrued sense of duty. What felt like a moral obligation inside is now small, selfish, vindictive. I am a portent for the end of the world. It’s coming. I may as well enjoy playing my part. From here, even hating Colin seems pointless. I look up, to where the higher floors cut away. We stand inches above the heads of the drones on level seventeen, staring into unrestricted sky, staring up through the space offices would occupy were we not so greedy for our sunlight, for our architectural aesthetic predicaments and pleasures. The glass windows ripple on, stretching near to the pale emerging moon before giving way to orange crème sky, deadly with sunset.

“Are you happy, Matt?” I ask him.

I hear the click of his lighter. Cigarette lit—that means I have seven minutes, seven minutes on my terms while he’s chained to the cruel lady poison. I put my gaze on him and he sucks on his cigarette for dear life, feeling a sliver of what I feel, a slight tingle at the base of his neck, a crawling feeling up his arms, something not unlike dread pooling in his lungs to drip, slimy and cold, down past his navel. I try not to choke on the smoke coloring the air like an ashy Easter egg. Matt exhales, laughing. “Sure, Adam,” he says, as if he’s indulging me, as if he can’t feel the very foundations of it all begin to shake, the grand façade begin to crumble. I know he feels it because he adds, “Happy as I can be.”

There’s a seed of dissent in his tone. I hold onto that almost desperately. “Happy as you can be, what does that mean?” I ask him, too quickly. We don’t have much time. I can’t get the thought out of my head—time, not enough _time_. I’m looking for misery in him. If I can find it, I can tell him what I know without being cruel. I won’t have to go back inside and feel it weigh heavy as the remaining seconds slip through my limp fingers, not even trying to grab on.

Matt shrugs. I make him uncomfortable, I can tell. “I don’t know, man,” he says, trying to laugh it off but sounding a little lost. “I did this thing for Colin, you know? We flew to the East Coast and had this little ceremony, and my country club parents wouldn’t even come. I don’t know, my dad thinks he’s Jay Gatsby or something. They’ve got all this money and god, they’re snobs, they’ve always been. When I didn’t get into Harvard, I thought my dad’s eyeballs were going to explode. So here I am, almost thirty, _married_ to _Colin_ —Colin as my _life partner_ , Adam, I don’t know how that’s—and my parents don’t even want to _meet_ him, that’s the thing.” He looks at me and his eyes are wild. His next words rush out with a cloud of smoke. He feels the fist of decimation squeezing him, whispering in his ear like some dark lover that the end is near. “I love him, you know what it’s like. I’m just trying to get my head around it all. I’d do anything for him—even make the kind of commitment I don’t know if we’re right for. I mean, I couldn’t even get him to sign a pre-nup till he was drunk, and he knows—he _knows_ no self-respecting lawyer would—I don’t know. It’s just that sometimes—what I keep thinking is that our marriage isn’t even legal here. I just can’t stop thinking that it, y’know, _isn’t real_.”

Matt stops and gives me this look, eyes wide and imploring. What does he want me to say? That that doesn’t make him a bad person? That he isn’t the only one who doesn’t think his marriage is real? Instead I play dumb, taking a lesson from Jade—don’t ask questions you don’t know the answers to, or else you run the risk of hearing something you won’t like. “Does that bother you?” I ask him. I sound a little dead, dead already, before the end is even here—but really I’m just trying to contain myself. Really I’m just trying not to tell him the truth.

Matt snorts like I knew he would. Self-abhorrence in his voice, he tells me, “No. It’s a relief.”

“Matt, if I told you I knew something…” I say, and can’t think of what comes after. He looks up at me, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with cold and embarrassment, almost hopeful. He wants me to absolve him, here at the end of all things. He wants absolution and he’s looking to me, because there’s no time to find anyone else. No priest, no principality in god’s kingdom, and no clergy—instead there is just me on this rooftop, and he will take what he can get.

“Yes?” he prompts. And it seems clear. He wants me to tell him, wants me to know. I’m free of guilt, free of consequence, free of burden. I will say the only prayer I have to offer: the truth.

“Something about Colin,” I go on, watching his expression closely. It doesn’t change. “If I said it wasn’t my job that I left Hunter over… would you want me to finish the sentence? Would you want to hear the chorus?”

Matt frowns at me, taking a drag of his cigarette. “I guess that depends on how the chorus goes,” he finally says. The doubt is back. He’s not who I thought he was—someone who would rather have truth, at any cost, than a pretty lie. He is not willing to jump into the abyss of absolution after all.

I hesitate. I glance over the railing. I am too close to the edge not to jump, I think. Too close to the edge. Not enough time left to take it back. “I left Hunter because he was fucking Colin behind my back,” comes out all at once. In immediate retrospect, I could have worded things more subtly.

Matt’s face goes blank with shock. Then he blanches; then anger floods in, darkening his eyes. Good, healthy anger. It’s the only way to cope with things of this magnitude. I offer Matt a sympathetic smile, but my muscles don’t remember the shape of it.

“You _bastard_ ,” Matt spits. I start to nod in approval before my brain processes that he’s talking to me.

“Wait, I’m—” I start to protest before Matt’s hand closes around my throat. Men in a fight, they throw a punch or two. But Matt is slowly, steadily, closing off my airway. I can’t help but be intimidated. He may actually kill me. This is it. The end. Armageddon.

“I opened _up_ to you, Adam! And you give me this shit back? Hunter told us you were changing, but an outright lie like that—outright _filth_? What the fuck would possess you to stand here and lie to me like this—to try and sabotage my relationship? I’m sorry you’re not happy in your own life,” he spits, grip slackening just as white stars begin to erupt across my vision. I’m disappointed. Doesn’t he know this is the end of the world? There’s no need to hold back now. “But don’t try to bring me down to where you are.”

My hands go immediately to my own neck, rubbing the newly tender skin. What fun I’d have explaining this bruise, if there was a tomorrow. I try to breathe, gasping a little bit, not sure if I even want to. “Don’t you wonder,” I wheeze, “why Colin kicked him out of the house?”

Matt doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to be convinced. Two hands around my neck told me that much. There are those of us will sit and watch, those of us who will go to sleep, and those of us who will go to their end kicking and clawing and screaming it’s not true. I’m not surprised when Matt glowers at me, when he warns, “One more word of this shit, and I’m resigning. Good luck digging yourselves out of this hole then.”

That, at least, is pretty clear. Matt does not want his world to end. He doesn’t realize it already has. He stalks off the balcony, throws his cigarette butt at my feet, goes inside. Where it’s warm. Where he can pretend time isn’t ending. Me, well, I rub at my neck and wait.

It’s coming. 

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	34. Jade

I have never seen so many angry people crowded into one doorway in my life. My mother, Smith, Elodia—all craning less-than-eager necks, all vibrating with fury. Even Josephine pokes her drooping head out between Smith’s ankles.

I raise one hand in an awkward almost-wave. “Hello,” I say, not sure what else there is. Life feels unfamiliar, a poorly tailored jacket stretched tight over my shoulders yet too loose in the arms. I spent the afternoon with death, I want to tell them, as if it will make them look more kindly upon me. I spent the day in that etherworld where time passes by you, untouched. I am worse than usual at small talk. I will atone for my crimes against you another time, I want to say. For now, just give me my son and let me go home.

“Thank you for finding him,” I say lamely, if only to fill the silence, fixing my eyes on a point just above Smith’s head. Piercing eye contact has always been one of my strong suits, but I’m having trouble understand what it is I’m meant to prove. Everyone just stares. I rock back on my heels and bring my hands together in front of me. I clear my throat. I listen for the crickets that much be chirping somewhere.

“I know I’m not very popular around here,” I say finally. These people make Emmanuel look goddamn cooperative. And yes, I do find it curious that almost everyone in my life is an insurmountable obstacle—and no, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the way I look at things. If everyone else in the world has a problem, what does that have to do with me? “I’ll just grab Em and go,” I add, remembering to finish my statement.

Elodia breaks first. “Aren’t you at least going to say hello?” Both Smith and my mother twist their heads to glare at her. She wrings her hands, guilty as their eyes imply. Fraternizing with the enemy is treason.

“I did say hello,” I clarify, because for all her lukewarm intentions she seems to be confused. “In fact that’s the first thing I said.”

“She meant to Dad, dickhead,” Smith grumbles. From the sound of it, my lovely sister-in-law won the calling-your-brother-a-cunt argument. Dickhead I’m okay with. I think he actually convinced a few of his less-than-genius jock friends my name _was_ Dick Head back in high school, just to get more people saying it. He left change-of-name forms, all filled out, on my desk. The only thing I needed to do was sign on the dotted line, lick the stamp, and it would have been official. So him calling me that now, well, it doesn’t really come as a shock.

I consider bowing out, making an excuse about the time, but I remember what Smith said about the watch. I glance at Mom, Smith and Elodia both towering over her. She looks older than I remember. Worn thin. I get the strange impression that she’s worn this badly-fitting jacket before, perhaps even the same on I’m wearing now. Anger cuts stark lines in her face and I remember who I got my temper from. “Emmanuel is having cookies in the kitchen,” she says sharply, finally speaking to me. She makes it sound like a threat, but they part nonetheless, letting me enter. Josephine at least is happy to see me. She must be skipping the party meetings. I’m sure by now they’ve made up leaflets. She thumps her tail against the ground and pants. Perhaps to show them I’m not so bad, that life does not hiss and steam and shrivel at my touch, perhaps because the seams of reality itself are coming undone, I stoop to pat her lolling head as I pass. It’s my way of saying perhaps I am not after all the villain—perhaps after all I am only a man who has done wrong, and not the omnipotent monster I’ve played at becoming for so many years.

I stand in the foyer for a moment. I can’t remember the shoe protocol for the house I grew up in. Maybe that means I am a monster after all. Off or on? I scourge my brain for any clue. Smith clears his throat, impatient, so I make an impulsive decision. I slip them off, fumbling for a moment. I turn to face their shoed feet and my thin black dress socks become even more embarrassing. I could not feel any more out of place. I could not be further from my comfort zone. That knowledge is heavy in the pit of my stomach, not unlike dread. “He’s in the living room,” Elodia tells me mercifully, the first to realize I don’t know where he’s lurking these days. I pad silently into the room, wondering irritably why he couldn’t have greeted me in the foyer like the rest of this overbearing family, and immediately realize what an ugly thought that really is: the first thing I see is the breathing machine. That’s new, but not in the way it’s okay to notice, not like a coffee table or an area rug. It’s new and it’s noticeable, but I have to look through it, pretend it’s not even there. I wonder what happens when someone runs into it. Does one pretend not to be hurt? Does one cover the bruise with stage makeup?

Because she seems like she might be on my sight, I throw a look at Elodia. All I need from her is a reassuring nod. She just gives me this dead-fish stare. This may in fact be the worst day of my entire life.

One of the two couches is pulled out into a bed, and it’s there that my father is entombed. So many tubes run in and out of him I look for the puppet-master pulling the strings. The heart monitor emits a beep that sets my nerves on edge. It’s like the ticking of his watch used to be; in the space between beeps, I can forget too easily that it will beep again; the time stretches on forever and I have to hold my breath, wondering if he’s still breathing. My mouth is dry, my hands clammy. I am a kid again. I keep my eyes on my strange socked feet and walk around the couch to face him.

He looks worse than I could have imagined. His hair is all but gone, a few pale wisps still clinging to his mottled scalp, his skin slack and grey and thin as paper. His face is gaunt; he must have lost fifty pounds since I’ve last seen him, and he was never anything but thin in the first place. His eyes are fogged, all but rolling in his skull. His chest grates as he breathes. I let out a sharp hiss of horror at this withered creature he has become, at the way I feel nothing even now, looking at what would be a dead body if not for the dull click of the oxygen machine. A yellowed toothpick arm, skeleton thin, jerks; the tubes and needles deep in the ashen skin pull tight, stretching as the undead fingers reach towards me. It is not a conscious decision; all I know is that I want to be further away, where it can’t reach me, and I step back. A wet pink tongue crosses the lips, lifeless worms swollen in his ragged face. “Jade,” he murmurs, voice faint, throat raw from the tubes shoved down it. “I knew you’d come.”

I look at him and I feel ill, like I’m choking, want to run and run and never return—Emmanuel be damned, I’ll leave him behind, and when the walls crumble and cave and collapse around this death, this sickness, this foul smell and stale air, I will never look back, never wish I’d stayed, never wish I’d saved him, only be grateful that I got away. For here it is: the old enemy, every nuance of it embodied, at home here in my father’s remains. Poverty, mediocrity, stench and disorder and filth. The way he’s lived his whole life unknown, ramshackle, from a state of dishonor. Even at the end, it is not calculated. Even in these last days, it is uncertain. Unstable. Entropic. And yes—that is what I have feared most, is it not? What is more terrible, what scares me more, than instability? I have built the foundations on rock, even if I have chosen rocks that are cold and scarred and ugly. I always thought they would be there. Rocks rarely disappoint: I had no way of knowing mine would turn so quickly to sand. Weakness: he has fallen to it, allowed this sickness to devour him utterly. Never did I dream to see so foul a sight. Never did I imagine my life would take me here, to this bedside, to this final blow to these last twenty years of perfect control, which were only after all an illusion. I stare at weakness, meet the eyes of it, of him, my father, so possessed by my enemy as to become inseparable from it, as to become one with it, one blunt swing to take me to my knees for good; and I surprise myself then. I receive the blow without struggle. I drop to my knees in the stunned silence of my duplicitous thoughts. I take his gnarled hand in mine, holding it still against the violence of the tremors that threaten to tear the needles free despite the medical tape securing them. His skin is coarse and cool and empty and my eyes sting, my throat closing, an allergic reaction to suffering, to grief, to defeat. “Hey, Dad,” I force out from under my tongue, where it was hiding. My words sound as strangled as I am, as we are, in this room so thick with misery, so rancid with death. And how easily we will shift from waiting, from watching, to mourning; how smooth the transition will be for those of us who needn’t feel the scaly hands of death close one final time around our throats and drag us under.

Almost as if he doesn’t know he’s dying, his eyes brighten, focus on me. His grey lips part, giving way to glistening teeth, a yellow smile. He finds what strength is left to him and throws it into his voice. “Smith,” my father says, as loudly as he can manage, doing his best to issue a command. “The cigar box on my dresser. Bring it to me.”

I glance at Smith. His face is dark, twisted with anger. We both wonder with ugly reminiscence why it is Smith who must get the box and I who must receive it. These are our roles, and we fill them; our eyes meet and hatred blazes openly in his twin pools of brown, so dark as to be indiscernible from the pupil enmeshed within them. When Smith doesn’t respond, my father knows he hasn’t moved, and his reedy voice finds strength. “This is how you honor your father?” he demands, ugly words from thick oozing lips. I feel my own knot into a smile, but it’s not a good one, not born of anything worth reproducing. The reprimand pushes Smith beyond hatred and into guilt. He does as he’s told without any further hesitation, and while he does, I ask. I have to.

“What is it? What got you, Dad?”

He gives me another yellow smile. “Nothing’s got me yet,” he says boldly, making an awful choked noise that takes a moment to register as a laugh.

Standing behind the couch, my mother stares at her hands, so I know it isn’t true. That there is a reason this house stinks of death. That he is dead already, perhaps only kept breathing by his refusal to admit that fact.

“How long?” I ask her, trying to sound conversational. That I’m asking when my father will die and that she and I haven’t spoken for a few years now strain the casual effect.

She shrugs, eyes shining, grey standing out at the roots of her once-black hair. That is the only answer I get, that seemingly careless shrug. I wonder how much of the callousness is hers, how much belongs to the sickness. You don’t tug Death’s skirts and whisper, “How long?”. Death won’t say, “Next Wednesday, at four p.m.”. Death won’t even say, “Any day now”. Death will shrug, shrug as the sickness shrugged into Dad’s old skin and weary bones, shrug as my mother does when I ask _when_ , as if such things are for anyone to know, as if she knows _when_ her husband is going to die. For a split second I can see the absurdity of it, see why she hates me so. The audacity of me. The naiveté, still persisting after all these long years. Thinking I know so much, but knowing nothing. Nothing of the life she leads. Nothing of what it really means to breathe. For a second, or only half, I understand.

The epiphany is vanquished by Smith, returning with the cracking enamel cigar box. Dad’s hands shake, trying to receive the box from Smith, who glares at me. Rheumatic spasms seizing him, needles straining in the loose skin, my father passes the box on to me. Smith’s glare darkens ominously. I’m not sure I want to know what’s in this box of Pandora’s. “This is for you, Jade. I’ve been waiting for you to come, so I could give it to you—knew you would.” He pauses, wheezing, to catch his breath. “You know it was your grandfather’s,” he adds, half the words stolen in a phlegmatic cough.

I steel myself against whatever horror or curse lays inside, and open the box. The velveteen lining is thin, flaked with tobacco and showing through in spots to the rough unfinished wood beneath it. Nested in the center of the worn purple fabric, chugging wearily, sometimes hesitantly, around the grimy dial, is that old watch of his. Huge on his emaciated wrist slides the Mont Blanc I gave him, years ago now, smudged with fingerprints and tarnished from improper care, scratched and dinged as any watch would have been. I’m reminded sharply that this is not a man who knows how to treat luxury, even when you hand it to him; this is a man who never understood why, when I poured every cent from my crappy part-time jobs into a wardrobe that wasn’t strictly thrift store hand-me-downs, I wouldn’t mow the lawn or crawl under his car to change the oil without changing first. I stare down at his old watch, the ugly one-eyed thing, struggling to complete its revolution around the wrinkled face, each second lagging a little longer than the last. Once again I’ve been entombed in twenty-five hour days, and I try to believe it’s a good thing, try to imagine how much I can accomplish in that extra time. The truth is, though, that I’m tired. Tired of all of it. My life, his life, running from the foul spell cast by this goddamn watch.

“Thank you,” I make myself say, to my dying father, about the watch condemning us both. I say it because the sickness, whatever it may be, has him good—and even if Death is shrugging today, tomorrow he’ll be looming fierce on the doorstep. I say it because I realize for the first time that he probably didn’t want his father’s worn-out old watch, when it passed to him. He probably spent a good part of his life running from those slowing seconds too. And the slower the seconds got, the slower he got. That watch ran him hard, broke him down, and eased him into his coffin, one sticky tick at a time. I say it because, cursed as it may be, it’s a gift that means something to each of us, or at least is meant to. I say it to keep up the illusion. To pretend.

We don’t stay much longer after that. Emmanuel emerges from the kitchen solemn-faced, led by Elodia. She has been saving me far too often lately, a point she reiterates by announcing, “It’s getting late; we should all be in bed”, and giving Em and I the chance we need to escape. We make awkward goodbyes and I imagine I can hear the foul watch ticking through the cigar box, though by now its arms are far too weak to much that sharp, definitive proclamation of each passing second. It wheezes instead, wheezing away like my father, like destiny, reaching for me through all the years of my life, arms growing longer with every hour it counts. It has seen my type before. It knows how to deal with people like me. This watch is a force to be reckoned with.

No one makes us promise to visit again, let alone soon. Elodia hugs Emmanuel, hugs me, but no one else makes an effort. Smith doesn’t even say goodbye, just stares at us. It is all painfully honest, no false pleasantries, only a baleful look from my mother and a forced hug from Ellie, who really does seem to want the best for everyone, even scum like me and my get. I wonder when I’ll see them again, try to imagine scenarios in which they’d choose contact with me and mine. Maybe when Dad passes, I think, but even that is unlikely. An old man dying is no reason to reach out to me. From now on I know I’ll be scanning the obituaries in the paper every morning. I want to make the choice myself whether or not to pay my respects to his life; I won’t leave things up to the unlikely mercy of my mother and Smith.

I pause when we get to the car. I’m holding the cigar box in one hand, my fate within it, my keys in the other. I wonder if I’ll ever give this curse, this ghost, this cigar box to my son—if he’ll deserve it. If I’ll know. And in that same moment I realize I don’t ever want to be my father—don’t ever want Emmanuel to be me. Suddenly I don’t want him to hate me anymore, suddenly am terrified at the prospect of dying alone. “Emmanuel,” I say abruptly, “why don’t you drive?”

Em looks from me to the Z8, caught somewhere between distress and giddy disbelief, wondering if I’ve gone mad. “You’re joking,” he says, like it’s a fact. That’s fair, I suppose. It was not so long ago his dusty shoes within a twelve-foot radius of my car was the end of the world, not so long ago it was a major issue if my car wasn’t scrubbed and waxed twice a week; and now, without giving him any reason to suspect I even mildly _like_ him I’m handing him the keys. He’s my boy after all; he’s right to suspect a trap. I would have done no less.

“I’m not,” I tell him, trying to sound sincere, but I’m not exactly a pro in that category. Well, maybe it’s high time Jade Puget turned over a new leaf. Maybe, just maybe, I could start being all the things I’m not—at least a little bit. I toss the keys over the car to him, and he drops them immediately, a ringing endorsement for his coordination skills. I really need to get him that basketball hoop. “You have your permit with you, right?” I ask, prompting him to retrieve them.

Em straightens up, face flushed with embarrassment, clutching the keys somewhat desperately. “Yeah, but—”  
I hold up a hand, cigar box cradled in my elbow, ticking to the rhythm of my heart, laying out my life in seconds, an inexplicable smile at the symmetry of it all tingeing my lips. I have faced death, stared down fate. I have come home, and now I’m leaving again, the old enemy here, in the crook of my arm. Perhaps to enslave me as I’ve always feared—but maybe, truly, only to remind me. So that I cannot forget the hard things I have learned. Despite the weight of the burden, the anchor of remembrance, of understanding, of this sick sweet knowledge most people call closure, I feel… free. Everything in my life has come tumbling to pieces around me—everything except this moment, and the next few. In the end, it were the things that I feared the most that stayed with me—my son. Adam. This goddamn watch. The people I always claimed I never needed until today, tonight, when I realize that they are the thing I have been living for all along. Inconceivable. It’s true, what they say: it’s not until you’ve lost everything that you have anything, be anything, _feel_ anything. The shackles of everything I’ve ever cared for have been lifted—tick, tick, tick—and now I’m free. Desolate—tick—lost—tick—but not in despair, never again in despair. Because I am free. And for as long as this damn watch hangs like a noose around my neck, like a razor on my wrist, I won’t be able to forget. Maybe that is the real reason my father started wearing the watch I gave him, the impostor: because at last, at the end of his long and weary life, he was ready to forget. Ready to escape the hard truths, the ugliness of it all. Ready to believe in the beautiful things, in the dreams that flayed me so far from his life.

Well, I am not ready to lay down. I am still here, and I intend to fight.

I hold the cigar box more firmly, clasping it to my chest. I’m not running anymore.

“I trust you, Em. You’re going to be great,” I tell my son, and maybe I don’t just mean the car, but he listens the way is easiest. He unlocks the doors, slips awkwardly into the driver’s seat. His legs are growing fast enough he barely needs to adjust my seat. I talk him through starting the car, in the meantime prizing the horrible old bronze watch out of the cigar box and settling it on my wrist. Somehow, it seems to me warm—surely my imagination, for the ghostly arms that have inhabited it before me have left no warmth behind, but taken all that they could find and brought it with them, to wherever it is they’ve gone. It feels right, as if the face so delicately curves to rest perfectly on the bones of my wrist, the angles of my arms, every link falling perfectly into place—tick, tick.

Emmanuel eases the car down the driveway, stalling it immediately at the bottom of the small slope. I lean back, close my eyes, and exhale. For the first time in a long time, I feel happy.

 

 

 

In fits and starts, Em drives us home. Every sputtering lurch of the car, every time he floods the engine, every near-death encounter with a street-sign and all twenty-three stall-outs, they should have me wincing, whining, bitching, and finally shoving him out of the driver’s seat and taking over with some nasty comment about still having a car to drive come morning. Instead I am deep in some kind of Zen funk. In fact, Emmie’s trials and tribulations are damn near funny from inside of the serenity in me. I think the last wire that was holding my brain together has snapped. The circuit has broken and peace flows free through me, as if it is not madness that we all fear and fight against, but serenity, this deep quenching sense of helplessness, of peace, of holistic calm. Maybe this is the flavor of real madness—for how else could I remain so still when every nerve ought to be frayed—nay, obliterated? I feel oddly whole and alive, and the watch ticks against my wrist, against my life veins, and slows things so I can see them clearly, so I know what it is I have to do. What it is I need. The hands point to the watch’s face, but each second ticks with the beating of my heart, in my blood, in my veins, and it tells me that it’s time—time for me. Time to be what I need.

I leave Em victorious at the house, big goofy grin lighting up his face, returning youth to planes usually so bereft. I remember the first time I drove a car, just barely—my father’s sputtering old thing, a creature that stalled out as frequently as a stick handled by an amateur but without the rhyme or reason or predictability; a creature that stalled because it wanted to, that screamed in the morning and guttering out like a flame in the chill of night. And the joy I filled with, strange and fresh and sad, was immense, just to have the freedom, the privilege of willing that great machine, of possessing the ability to _move forward_.

There’s another thing I remember—another thing I haven’t forgotten. Just because I haven’t had time to think of him doesn’t mean I haven’t been. Oh, I’ve been thinking—and not just thinking but aching, bursting with words unsaid, with the things I can’t stop feeling. And for the first time, I’m free to feel them, free as Emmie must have felt wrestling with the reins of the eight-cylinder powerhouse that is the Z8. I floor it, the engine reverberating to the core of me as it tries to take off from the driveway and cut invisible across the night air, and do my best to hold on—not caring if I ride to ruin. Not caring if I seek a red dawn.

I nearly break the sound barrier. After so much waiting, so much hesitation and uncertainty, obedience of things like speed limits and the laws of physics seem asinine. The things I need to say, need to be allowed to feel, have waited long enough. There are a handful of cars in the executive lot, but I only care about one; its sleek flanks gleaming as surely as my own car’s are foaming, it is a deep black monolith, an anchor for my heart, the compass for my soul; I am not too late. I slam the Z8 into park, diagonally taking up three parking spots with barely enough car to fill one, not caring, not caring, not _caring_! Nothing but this. The lobby is dark, echoing, overbearing; I jog across it, footsteps obscene in muffled blackness of it, reviling my own taste. Before we went international, we had an after-hours receptionist to field any alternate time-zone calls; I remember the lights always being on, glaringly illuminating my post-modern marble legacy. I wonder if that girl, always dressed so crisply, came in to answer phones or only to nod smartly at me and say, “Good morning, Mr. Puget,” so wryly whenever I’d seek refuge here, buried alive in my own work. I wonder for the first time what they all think of me, in these hallowed halls—not because I care what the answer is, but because for the first time I _do_ care what someone thinks of me, if I’ve sabotaged myself with my façade and its impressions or if I still have a chance, if my new wings will dry in time for me to use them, or if I’ll end up another bloody ingredient in the mixed drink that is one part Jade, two parts oblivion, and seven parts concrete. I’m running without meaning to, without making the conscious choice to flat-out charge across the vast, echoing, ostentatious space—never before have three-story ceilings seemed so shallow. I can’t shake the low feeling in my gut, raising the hairs on the back of my neck, that _time is running out_ , that I haven’t got much longer.

The elevator lags, taking so long to open its doors I consider taking my chances with the stairs. Again the absence of elevator music plagues me: my thoughts swell up to press against the close walls, larger than life or anything it might entail, larger than anything tangible, infiltrating my lungs, the space air should occupy, and suffocating me. I may have to reconsider my policy on background noise, or at least devote less cash flow to achieving the height of silent elevator technology.

I am almost out of air before the door slides open with a pneumatic hiss. I decide that I hate elevators; they are a placid, unenviable nemesis. I am early yet for 2001—for any glimpse of a favorable global economy are regaled to those few lapses in the nineties and all but extinct in the shadow of this new millennium—but I resolve nonetheless to take the stairs more often, deprive my enemy of that sociological satisfaction of fulfilling its purpose, of thriving autonomously instead of being reduced to shame and failure. Erik Erikson himself would be proud of my analysis of the elevator’s dubious conscious state and its unspoken goals—or perhaps he too would only reiterate what you and I know already, that I am going mad.

Freed from the ubiquitous chamber of my brand-new enemy, I go first to Adam’s office, barely restraining myself from flat-out running down the darkened hallways as I did the lobby. Even though I saw his car in the lot myself, the door to his office is locked, and no response gratifies my increasingly frenzied knocking. I panic. It’s too cold out to take the trolley, that’s what I assumed when I saw his car, but what if he did? What if Adam and fate itself have congealed into one foul entity with the sole purpose of spiting me? What if I’m too late?

I slump to the carpet, legs that were previously well-maintained and well-behaved, not to mention splendid in their musculature, giving out as if they themselves have abandoned our purpose. I allow myself to lean against his locked off door, but do not mistake leaning with relaxing. My spine stays rigid, all the muscle in my back tense and unrelenting. I have no cyanide capsule, no .45 Colt, not even a red-handled axe in case of emergency. No, I came equipped for this apotheosis turned apocalypse with only a cell phone, and I’ll be damned if I don’t exploit every last asset I’ve got. Dignity giving way to utter disgrace, I procure my trusty Blackberry and dial Adam’s home number. I’ve never used it before but somehow my fingers know it by heart. After everything I’ve gone through in the last few days, missing Adam is the thing that seems unbearable—that he might have left the office hours, moments, or even seconds before I arrived, hunting for him, has the power to cripple me, to stop my heart. It is too much to bear, too much to live through; these are the last moments of my life and I will die here on the office floor if I have missed him. My heart will simply give out. No one can sustain such a thorough beating only to be struck down by _bad timing_ , by a fucking _coincidence_. For all that I have withstood, I cannot withstand this. For all that I have survived, I will _not_ survive this, this final injustice, one last heartbreak.

I have three rings, three agonizing rings, to despair, before he—not Adam, but an unfamiliar he—answers. “H’lo?” the bastard mumbles sleepily, as if I’ve woken him, as if I’ve perhaps had the undue audacity to personally drag him from the warmth and comfort of Adam’s bed, Adam’s body. There is a grim satisfaction in that, but also a wild desperation.

“Who the hell is this?” I growl, irrational. Not Adam too—I’ve lost everything else. I can’t lose Adam too.

“I’m sorry, may I ask who’s calling?” whoever-it-is asks politely, cautious phone manners intact, plump with the affectation of a rosy childhood. Loathing looms in me, threatening to overwhelm the desperation in a welcome reprieve; sinking, sickening, the voice begins to sound familiar, familiar like nails on a chalkboard, familiar like the way asphalt stings as it bites into your knees and elbows and tender skin. Familiar in the way of a thing you don’t think about until it’s upon you; until it’s upon you and you wonder, how could I ever have forgotten, even for a moment, that such a thing existed, that such teeth as these would sink into me once again?

“I’m looking for Adam,” I say through gritted teeth. If I part my lips, my heart will slip out between them, wings wet and fluttering, and I may never get it back. “It’s a goddamn emergency, so put him on the fucking phone, Hunter.”

Hunter—because that’s who it is, who it’s always been, fucking _Hunter_ , and that he is there while I am not is not only wrong but a universal injustice—answers meekly, like the coward he is, like the unworthy disloyal _polyp_ that I and I alone recognize him to be. “Adam isn’t here right now. Can I take a message?”

Of course, he could be lying to me. He could. But whether or not he has the _juevos_ to lie to me, this is the end of the road. Cell phone exhausted. If Hunter won’t put him on the phone, it doesn’t matter where he is, there’s nothing the phone can do for me. If Hunter was in a position to answer at all—but no. I wouldn’t even survive the thought. I don’t hang up the phone, not exactly. I more, ah, throw it at the wall with all my strength and watch with dull satisfaction as expensive pieces fly off of it. Then I swear the top of my lungs, and the blank charcoal walls echo the explicative back it me instead of absorbing the sound the way white ones would. Too late for Adam, too late for me, I exhaust my last ounce of foolish will getting to my feet. Maybe I will stay in the white room forever. Maybe eventually they will drag me free of it, beyond caring, beyond madness, and I will kick and claw and scream at the terror of color, until they have no choice to find another room, soft and white, to keep me in.

It’s that thought, wild and empty, that gives me the energy to move forward, down the hall. Towards solace. I lose my footing, stumble, but the white stillness will keep the feeling in, force it down, hold closed the ears of the living while I scream and gibber and howl myself to pieces. To death.

I’m edging on salvation, palms flat against the surface of my dead rotting cage, my own mortality, when for some reason I pause, and stare out into the sky. It thrashes in death’s throes, purple as a poet’s struggle with eternity, with despair. I stare into the endlessness of the violent nightfall and I breathe, an action I cannot emphasize enough; I simply expanded my lungs and took sustenance in, as if to nurture myself the way sunlight does a plant, and some of the mad stirrings within me were soothed, by that simple mechanism, that simple act. It’s too wonderful to stay so far from, to stay separate, to fall anywhere but into its fell arms: it is the color of tragedy, of a final breath, the color of my days. It hooks into me and I’m pulled towards the balcony, unwitting, unwilling, unable to do anything but. A shadow stands on the balcony—a fragment, a wraith. It stands and stares up at the sky, feeling the updraft caress its skin, and for a moment I think it’s me, as always ahead of myself.

Then I know better.

I open the door, heart swelling, thick and fat and red with so much blood, so much life, hot and fetid on my tongue. I would rather step off the balcony than say these next words, my undoing, but Adam turns to face me, cheeks sanguine with windburn, hands red and chapped from the cold, and it is too late to run, to back out, to merely subside, waxing eternal of my Shakespearean folly. Even in San Francisco, the winter is cruel, especially eighteen stories above it all. His eyes glitter in what’s left of the daylight, their melting blue much darker than I remember. The pupils are wide, all but obscuring the iris, inky and drinking in the light, refracting it and shooting out of his ears and mouth and fingers and toes so that he turns, facing me, glowing, haloed by his own light except for the dark sunken pits of his wet anthracite eyes, and I cannot stop myself from knowing.

“You shouldn’t be with Hunter,” I hear myself say, his eyes pulling the words from the depths of me. The words are metallic, drawn out of me by a sky the color of drowning and the reality of it, in those eyes. Ending poises sweetly, posturing on Adam’s lips. I would do anything for a taste.

His eyes, so dark and frightening and alive, yet unlike life, flash at me. he laughs softly. “I’ve been standing out here all night, waiting for the world to end,” he tells me, voice hoarse and rasping and hollow. He hears it too, a hand going to his shadowy neck to rub the skin, as if to worry out the jagged quality with his twisting grip. He frowns at the sound of his own voice. “You’ll have to forgive me, but this isn’t the way I imagined it. You’re going to have to tell me why, Jade, in greatest clarity—why exactly I should not be with Hunter. Maybe it’s that I ought to fling myself from this rooftop instead?” he suggests a little wildly, seizing the railing with a desperation borne of a deeper struggle, one I haven’t seen. His eyes gleam with the madness of it, glitter like jewels, ripe and ready to be plucked from their sockets and worn as bloody baubles. I would adorn the entirety of my body, with eyes like that. I’d glisten in his longing. “Maybe you rather I die all at once, a flashbulb dashed on the pavement, then strung up on this slow spider-silk’s noose—”

I can’t stand to hear him go on anymore, because I know he will go on, and perhaps never come back, ramble until his tongue shrivels, lips die. So I bring him back. “No,” I interrupt sharply before he can escape my arm’s length. His black eyes focus on me again, grip slackening on the railing. “That’s not why.” Adam stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head, or perhaps if I’ve said the very words I’m still uttering, so I press on, dive headfirst into what may only be an empty pool, an empty decimation, a vibrant death. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there’s more than that vengeful god. Maybe it’s about love and beauty and all that shit—maybe love is something worth believing in after all.”

Hearing myself say it, being right for the first time in unknowable, unnamable, innumerable years, and a juggernaut, because now that I have started I cannot stop, I throw back my head…

  
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	35. Adam

…and he laughs.

Jade Puget stands before me, with the faint moonlight glow of a god pouring out of his skin, eyes dark and serious, voice steady and low, and he laughs. He laughs as if he simply can’t contain himself any longer; as if the joy and mirth of a thousand lifetimes have boiled up inside him, torn his lips open, and begun pouring out. The sound of it galvanizes me, seeps in through my skin and charges every cell, every atom, every molecule till they’re screaming, crashing into one another and crying out with the ferocity of the sound.

All at once I know. I was wrong about the world ending. It isn’t ending: it’s beginning anew. New lives, new fates, new potentials are born and bathed in the tremendous light of Jade’s laughter.

When the sound ends, I can still see the glowing echo on his full pink lips. I can still feel it in my bones, in the air that I’m breathing.

A smile still haunts his lips and I’m overwhelmed with desire to taste that smile, to run it over my tongue and between my teeth. I stand very still. If I move at all, I might lose control, and I don’t know where I’ll run to: Jade, the heart of my agony, or up and over the railing, to pain much more straightforward, to the kind of tragedy I know how to cope with. The weight of whatever it is I feel for him pushes down on me, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, and something not unlike panic accompanies the suffocation. “Adam,” he says, softly, sweetly, cupping my name like a delicate thing, “I want you to show me beauty. I want you to show me art. You give me something to believe in, Adam. You _are_ something to believe in. With every day, with every moment, you show me things I didn’t know I could see. So I’m here to tell you I was wrong. I was wrong about everything.” My heart is thundering in my ears. I want to speak but don’t know how, don’t want to sully my brand new birth with anything but the perfect words, and I don’t know those.

“You shouldn’t be with Hunter,” he repeats, eyes glittering, fearless and bold, “because you should be with me.”

The world explodes. Possibilities, electrifying, flood into every branching second, each unfolding moment, and they burst with golden light, unable to hold their new swollen potential, their new meaning.

Jade’s quirk of a smile doesn’t waver so much as melt away so utterly his lips are a void of warmth, of feeling. “If I’m still wrong, if even now I’m wrong, I’ll go mad, Adam. I’ll go mad outright rather than fall back into the insanity of my days, of this unreality, this living death. My company is failing, Marissa lost the baby, my marriage is a judge’s signature away from obliteration, and I’m wearing my father’s goddamn watch—you have to understand, Adam, what that means. That means I’m not going to try to be someone else, not going to run, anymore. That means I’ve left everything in flames. That there’s nothing to turn back to. You may have Hunter, the old pattern of your empty days that maybe you didn’t know were empty before now, before me, before this moment—but I have nothing. I’ve thrown it all away, given up everything that should have mattered most to be here, with you, to feel this moment. To mean these things I’m saying.

“You told me I could believe in love, Adam. So now I’m asking you for love that’s worth believing in.”

The part of me that I’ve been clubbing to death like a baby seal, one day at a time, for what seems like my whole life, is suddenly struggling into being. I feel the quality of things in me shift; I feel them quietly, irrevocably, change.

And I know then that it’s more than love that I will show him.

This balcony, it’s where I thought we had our first moment, our first real meeting, but I was wrong. There were no moments before this, no time. This overlaps the old, eclipses it, till perhaps the have happened simultaneously or only brushed elbows on their way out, and we are none the wiser, mere supplicants before the grace of the sneering watch face, where time does not flow forward in one motion down the X axis of our lives but instead flits from moment to moment, year to year, knitting together our bones, stitching our histories. What I do next I have always done, I always will do, I could never have escaped, I could never have wanted to.

Jade is staring at me, eyes deep and amber with failure and despair. The last light in the sky—or perhaps, this side of the moon, I should call it the first—catches an unruly roan curl, making it gleam copper. The cool air has colored his cheeks ruddy and his disgust, his disbelief, is all but overwhelming. He hates himself for what he’s saying, or maybe not for saying it sooner. A deep burgundy cut down his lip stands out, making them look ever more appealing, even as they curl into a sneer of self-abasement.

So I speak. “You’re not wrong.” I pause, words sticking in my throat, clinging to my tongue, and watch it register on his face, watch the orchidaceous effect of it bloom from an uncertain flicker of gold in those eyes to a sudden tightness around those swollen lips. I close the distance between us and am suddenly unsure of what to do—I don’t know how to kiss Jade Puget, don’t know what’s expected or what’s allowed or even how to touch his invulnerable skin. He is a god: won’t touching him stop my heart? Or worse, make him human?

Oh, but what a way to die. After a moment’s hesitation I lean forward, laying a hand to his cool cheek, and bring my lips to his for absolution.

His are not what I’ve imagined: for all their softness they are neither passive nor receptive. As Jade would, his lips dominate mine; he moves as if to devour me, as if he can taste my very soul, his lips and tongue and teeth desperate to consume me, to be contained in me, to possess and own and know me. I kiss him back the same and it is not romance but violence, the clash of two warring selves instead of the melding of one. Months of hate and pain and anguish live and die in our first kiss; my feet no longer touch the ground and I’m not breathing, can’t breathe, am flooded by Jade in a sensation different than anything I could have imagined. Our lips meet and create war, teeth and tongue and the taste of blood, and in that total eclipse of agony we are joined in a bond more sure than tenderness and intimacy could ever forge. It is pain and pleasure, the delicate balance of life and death, thanatos and eros, Isis and Osiris, not a kiss but a battle, a cataclysm of spirit.

The kiss ends gasping, when we are out of air and dizzy, and Jade’s tongue flicks to pull a drop of red, a quivering orb of blood, from a cut I’ve opened in his lip. His eyes are on me, keeping me breathless, burning brighten than the stars being born in the sky around us. I am drunk on his gaze, on the taste of him bleeding, on the reality of this unreal moment.

He speaks first, because I cannot. It’s not so much the words that I hear, just his voice behind them, moving them into an alignment that suits him. What he says then, his first words, _our_ first, will be forever unknown to me; I hear the warmth offered and understand that I will follow him anywhere, but no meaning beyond that while resonates in my very bones.

The first path he chooses for me to follow him upon is simply returning through the door from whence we came, though it no longer leads to the same place; I follow him inside and the warmth curls around me immediately, although I had not realized until then that I was cold, for every inch of me is burning. For a moment I can’t breathe; then I look to Jade, see the sweetness of the smile he’s wearing, and breathing fails all over again, followed by my heartbeat. He holds out his hand, big and warm, and I flex stiff fingers, trying to comprehend the offering. There is no uncertainty left in Jade, and I almost envy him—envy his confidence, his surety, before I realize all I have to do is ask, and he will lead the way.

I take the hand that is offered. My hand fills his utterly, completely; his smile widens and he gives my arm a little tug. “I’m in love with you, Adam,” he says, and if I didn’t have his hand to steady me I’d be blown away. I’d reciprocate if I knew the words or remembered how to speak, but I see in his eyes that Jade knows this already. I relax and let him lead me from the room, from the building; we pause before the tall glass doors, feeling the weight of it all anew. He meets my eyes and the translucent henna spills into me, flooding warmth into everything it touches. I didn’t realize I was hollow inside until he filled me; didn’t realize I was lost until he found me. I have found Jade the way most people find religion. I am enveloped in him, limitless in my belief, my newfound devotion. From the moment I met him he opened my eyes; from our first conversation he changed me. And someday I’ll be able to say that to him, though I expect he already knows; someday I’ll be able to thank him for everything we’ve started.

I’m in no hurry to say these things now. Most of them would only make him roll his eyes. The thing is, I know I have time. I know that we could have all the time in the world, laid down legs spread before us. What we do with it is entirely up to me—because Jade is loyal, steadfast, honest, true. I know that, for all I’ve let him lead the way, it is I who will determine the path we follow—I know that that much is up to me.

So we take a breath, lungs unfolding and expanding with the unison of a quadrilateral, the most serene of polygons; we brace ourselves, for the road will be long and the vicissitude unapologetic; we prepare ourselves, our readiness, to step out into the new air. To face the world.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



	36. Emmanuel

So I’m supposed to say we all lived happily ever after, right? Because we didn’t. We all lived, except for the old sick guy I was supposed to call Grandpa, and we were all mostly okay, I guess, but happiness ever after—which is, like, forever—would be not only illogical but kind of boring, wouldn’t it? That’s not life.

And I mean, I don’t know how happy I am, anyway. Mom and Dad split up, which totally entitles me to be whiny and maladjusted, even if I’m okay with it. Another thing they did was sell our house, which was kind of a bummer because of the pool and everything, but I don’t get that creepy feeling that I’m a toy in some giant’s dollhouse anymore. It is also much harder for a murderer to hide in the nooks and crannies of an apartment, so there’s a lot less terror and suspense before he kills you, which is another perk. Mom got this little apartment that Dad’s paying for, since she blew all her modeling money on clothes and plastic surgery like years ago. Models do not actually get paid as much as you would think, not like the ‘cheap Hollywood whores’ do. I heard Mom tell Dad once that she was talented enough an actress to make the same money they do if he actually believed he was capable of satisfying her. Which was gross, and harsh, and not really relevant. Anyway, it’s a nice apartment, and I stay there with Mom most of the time. Which is not ideal, not for anyone. I mean, it’s okay I guess, but she’s sober a lot more than she used to be, and that’s not great news. For me, at least. The weirdest thing is that now that she’s not married to Dad anymore, Mom doesn’t even _have_ a boyfriend. When she was married she had about six at any given moment, but apparently Single means Single! or some bullshit like that. She’s been doing some hippy yoga stuff and has this creepy new outlook on life I guess. As long as she doesn’t decide she’s a lesbian—because I have enough of that in my life, thank you very much—I don’t mind, except that she’s in my space a lot. I’m not so okay about that. I used to have like an entire floor to myself. Now she won’t even stay out of my room. I know we’re supposed to be a family now, but we don’t have to like talk to each other all the time or anything. It’s like she’s forgotten everything Dad taught her. They were married practically forever—surely he would have taught her to shut up every now and then. She’s been talking her old agent’s ear off, too. I guess she wants to start modeling again. She finally realized that if she doesn’t model two pieces or slutty underwear, you can’t even see the mutant alien scar-monster chewing up her abdomen.

Dad’s situation is weirder. For me at least. I kind of don’t know how I feel about it yet. I stay with him on the weekends. He lets me drive his BMW, for the practice, and doesn’t even flinch when I grind the gears or stall out. He even told me I’m a natural, which is almost entirely a lie. He wears this really ugly broken watch now, too. The way it ticks drives me crazy. Adam’s apartment, which is where Dad is living, is all right. I mean, it’s pretty nice, and I have my own room to sleep in. Adam let me put up posters and get a cool bedspread and everything, so it’s not like I’m using a guest room or anything, it’s like guests are using _my_ room. So that’s cool. I guess they’re getting a house and everything together. Dad says Adam’s going to teach me how to play basketball, which I’ve grown enough to maybe have a chance at. And it’s not like I don’t like Adam, even if he is a little young for Dad. Also he has a penis. I mean that takes getting used to.

The thing is I’m not sure about the whole gay dad thing. I mean, it’s just kind of weird, you know? I finally have this great reason to be fucked up, but it’s like I don’t really even feel that fucked up anymore. When I told Scott about it, Dad and Adam I mean, his eyes like exploded out of his head, and I knew right after I maybe shouldn’t have told him, even if we are best friends. Right away he asked, “Do they like have sex and stuff?” I do not want to think about that at all. In fact I don’t want other people to think about it, not even Scott. Maybe the thing is I don’t even want other people to know.

Dad, I think, went totally apoplectic when the school district refused to bus me the 45 minutes to school, and then when they refused to admit me at all when they found out Mom’s new place is a five-minute walk from another public school. Plus they won’t talk to my parents at all without their lawyer present, so there were a lot of lapses in communication. Dad thought I’d be as furious about switching schools as he is, so he gave me a million brochures for every private school in the entire city, like I wasn’t a total pariah at my school anyway. Anyway selling drugs and ditching class wasn’t really what I wanted to do with my life, you know? So moving to a new school was a good way to get out of it without making Bobby Bragg detest my guts or anything. I started realizing that one day in the third floor bathroom when Scott took me aside while Bobby chain-smoked and told me this was stupid, he was tired of smelling like cigarettes, he wasn’t doing this crap anymore, he was going to class, and maybe he’d see me after school. The disapproval came off him in waves. You could almost see them. Bobby was watching, so I had to play like I was angry, call Scott a woman and everything, but I didn’t mean it. And that’s the kind of thing I was sick of—being a slave to how people saw me, thought about me, perceived me, you know? I am not sorry for who I am. I had more fun, was happier, back when I was an outcast who worried about his dad being an international man of mystery instead of just a faggot. I mean, I’m still weird, you know? I still think about weird stuff and say weird things, even if not always out loud. I still worry about being murdered by Kenton’s cleavalanche and all that. Selling Mom’s pills to the kind of kids I never want to be just meant I had to try even harder not to act this way—like me.

So maybe I’m okay with who Emmanuel Puget is, even if that’s a walking social disaster. Starting over will not be the worst thing in the world: it might take these kids weeks, as in _entire weeks_ , to think of calling me Manny, and none of them will know about the lawsuit thing. It’s not like I won’t get to see Scott all the time, either. I mean, I’ve practically got my driver’s license, in a few months anyway. It’s not really that long of a drive.

To everyone’s surprise, I pick the walking-distance public school over the super-snobby prep schools. Dad says I must be a masochist. The plan is, Dad picks me up from school on Fridays and drops me off there Monday mornings. I wonder if him and Mom are avoiding all contact on purpose, or if it’s just his usual rational business thinking. Sometimes Adam drives me instead, which I like, because I don’t feel like I’m going to die nearly as often, and he listens to cooler music. I line up my excuses: he’s my older brother or an uncle or I’m cool enough to have a much older friend. Just in case someone asks. I don’t tell Dad, but Adam’s let me drive it, and I like the Bentley better than the BMW.

Jean and Isabel are gone, like they were fixtures of the house and they were sold too. Isabel cried and called me her _corazón_ and kissed me right on the cheek when we said goodbye. She hugged me against her soft warm breasts and left some of her bright lipstick on my cheek. I couldn’t sleep for like a week. It was even better than the Miss Maple fantasy.

I do miss my old life, though. At least a little bit. You know, the one where Mom was pregnant with a stranger’s baby and Dad hated me and Uncle Isaac wasn’t in prison and Uncle Smith didn’t know my name and everyone at school thought I was a gay loser and everything made, I don’t know, some kind of _sense_. It’s on my first day of school, at the new school anyway, and the classes seem okay. I mean a new semester just started so I don’t even have time to be behind, and none of the teachers breathe fire, and I won’t ever have to see the lines of Mrs. Zott’s granny panties again. So that’s cool, even if not one single person talks to me and I start to forget what my own voice sounds like, if it even works anymore. I clear my throat a lot. During lunch I’m sitting there eating alone, my very first day, and I’m not that lonely. I mean, I’m used to this. I wish I’d had a friend, maybe, to tell me not to get the burger, since it’s just grey grease on a bun, but I guess I know that now, so it’s not a big deal or anything. I’m reasonably content, for me, picking at the grease and reading _Catch-22_ , which is my favorite book ever, in happy anonymity, until this jackass kid sits down next to me. He’s built the same way Scott is (and maybe I’m weird for noticing, but so what), which makes me miss Scott, and also I know he’s an athlete who probably thinks the book I’m reading is some new form of lunchmeat. I anticipate a wedgie. I could say something, tell him it’s the modern innovation of written word and not food for cavemen or something weird like that, but I don’t want to stand out already. I mean, I’d like to befriend the other rejects subtly—you can’t recover from throwing up the ‘freak’ beacon on your first day. Not even the real weirdos will talk to you once you’re flagged like that, except maybe the dirty-looking girl who likes the taste of her own blood and thinks she can communicate psychically with her cat. And because I’m a generally sanitary person, that just won’t work out for me. So instead I just look at him, waiting for him to make his move, kind of antagonizing him with my eyes. I hope. I might just look pathetic and weird.

“You’re Manny Puget, right?” he asks stupidly, managing to say both my first and last names wrong, even if the former is on purpose. I die a little inside. How has my faggot nickname preceded me? I’m suddenly gripped by terror, whose hands are very cold: what if someone here finds out about my dad? I mean, he’s kind of famous, especially since Uncle Zac destroyed his company, and he doesn’t really try to hide that he’s living with Adam instead of my mom. Which is cool, not having to hide that you’re gay, unless you have a fifteen-year-old son in high school who is already having problems asserting his sexuality to his peers. Then it’s just cruel.

Grug the Caveman kind of pushes me by the shoulder. He thinks it is okay to do this because when I’m sitting down you can’t tell how big I’ve gotten. I mean even my hands are growing. They’re almost as big as my dad’s. I know that because Adam told me. Which I didn’t ever want to hear from him. Anyway, I may be skinny, but I’m even taller than Scott now. My dad’s brother even told me I’m built like a lacrosse player, which is probably every bit as much a lie as trigonometry, but I like to think anyway. I would tower over this guy. “I asked you a question,” Grug says, kind of meanly. He would be extremely insensitive to a mute. “Aren’t you Manny Puget? My buddy Ronnie says you sell.”

I give him a look, the one I’ve been watching my dad give for years, like my whole life. Almost sixteen years of practice have made me pretty good. I get to my feet, feeling strong instead of gawky, look down at the kid, and decide who I’m going to be.

“My name is Emmanuel,” I tell him coldly, hoping I look menacing, hoping his testicles turn into ice just from the sound of my voice. I don’t think I’m that good yet, though. “I’m sorry, but you must have me confused with someone else.”

I can almost see him quail before me. It is an awesome feeling, one I’ve never had before. I think that maybe this is what my dad meant about being a Puget, about being his son.

Grug the Jock scurries off and it feels hard to sit down, hard to contain all the energy coursing through me, all the oddly raw power. I compress the flow into my limbs, force them back from rampancy, sit and pretend that I am an ordinary, civilized mortal, for the first time realizing I am so much more than that. After all—I’m a Puget.

That would probably be a good place to end, right? But I’m not quite done yet. Because right then something good happened to me, and what the hell good has happened to me in the last one hundred sixty pages? I deserve this.

I pick up my book and about two seconds later I’m interrupted again. I’m a little excited to have yet another outlet for my brand-new power. I look up, eyes dark with anger, ready to tell another jock that I don’t sell drugs (anymore)—ready to tell the whole damn school of jocks if I have to. I’ll make them piss themselves.

But instead, on the receiving end of my mighty wrath is this tiny little pale girl, maybe five feet tall with limbs like a bird. You can tell she’s a loser right away because she has horse teeth, like really massive teeth. She has teeth like Kenton had breasts and, making them pop even more ferociously from her otherwise small princess-y face are the awful gleaming death trap of braces. You forget how awful having braces is until you look at someone else who them. They are really very terrible. Other than braces—and it’s pretty hard to move past them—her hair is dark honey blond, kind of scratchy-looking, straight like dirty straw. It’s plastered flat against her scalp like she just lets it air-dry, and it’s long and straight and blond like all the shampoo commercial cheerleaders, but you just know it will never look like theirs. She’s holding a brown lunch bag like the kind Isabel used to send me to school with. Standing next to her is a guy, taller than she is, freckled, and just chubby enough that changing for gym must be like torture and you just know he always gets picked last for teams. Which gives us one thing in common, at least. He has springy brown curls that make me think he’s probably Jewish. His glasses are alarmingly thick and his skin is kind of pink and burnt instead of healthy California tan, and instead of a lunch he’s clutching a stack of comic books.

“I’m Lilly and this is Elijah,” the girl says all at once, like maybe she’s really hyperactive, or else nervous. But she’s too small and brutal looking, like a sewing needle made out of whalebone, to be nervous, even if I was intimidating or remotely impressive. She is mousy-looking, one of the most bland, unattractive people I’ve ever seen, so much as wallpaper, and I think I’m in love. This is because in her other hand is a copy of _Catch-22_ , same as me. I have never been friends with people who like to read before.

She nudges Elijah. His cheeks flush, making them look sweaty, and he won’t meet my eyes when he mumbles, “Hi, new kid.”

Lilly speaks too quickly and I realize that she _is_ nervous, I _have_ somehow become either impressive or intimidating. I am not picky. I will take either. Because she is obviously the love of my life, I hang on every word. “The way you scared Steve was really cool,” explodes out of her. “Can we sit with you?”

I don’t know if they want protection or if someone in the world actually wants to be my friend, and I don’t care. I smile at Lilly and Elijah, because I still can, and I let them sit. And I think to myself, everything is going to be okay.

It’s not happily ever after, but you know what? Maybe that’s the way it should be.

  
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=7370>  



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